


Half Jack

by BreathingSpace



Category: Frankenstein & Related Fandoms
Genre: (the secret isn't that he's gay but you know how it is), Body Horror, First World War AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sea Monsters, anyway it's biological horror ANYWAY so what's a short leap to the organic between friends, boat victor, it's killing me vic and henry aren't childhood friends but they fall in love on a boat instead, look guys i know but i'm 1) stupid; 2) i like frankenstein and wwi and 3) work with me here, lovecraftian eldritch horror au, minor character death (it's the first world war), navy AU, what if victor is a naval officer........... with a Secret......
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-01-15 17:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18503218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreathingSpace/pseuds/BreathingSpace
Summary: “Sub-Lieutenant Clerval. Henry.”“Victor,” said Victor.“Victor,” repeated Henry. Then he let go of Victor’s hand and said brightly, “Welcome to purgatory!”





	1. Chapter 1

Now they had been two and a half hours on the boat, and Victor was just beginning to see their destination through the sea-rain. The mist settled on his face to such coldness he could feel his skin shrinking away from it, contracting red and raw. He knotted his hands in his useless gloves once more.

The  _ Justinian  _ lay at berth in Spithead, sheltered from both the worst of the weather and the sea beneath. Every now and then a ripple of precipitation would render it visible. It was a squat, ugly little thing which hung half underwater. Even at anchor it was trailing smoke. It looked like a steam engine had come detached, thought Victor, with some venom. His experience with ships thus far had been the few mercy ships he’d happened to glance being slipped free of the Thames in the early morning. If that was all the acquaintance they came to, it would be no great loss.

The woman in front of him moved her pipe to the corner of her mouth in order to better shout at her companion in utterly incomprehensible West Country. A clammy hand tapped him from behind. It made him shudder, like a nerve going sour. A voice climbed into his ear.

“We’re not too far from ‘er now. Polly reckons another five minutes or so.”

Victor nodded, biting his tongue. He was determined to appear as stoic as possible. The fewer words than came out of his mouth, the fewer could be wrong. He felt a surge of envy for the two VAD women either side of him. Although he supposed they would be Navy now. Coarse, with salted hair and big hands. The woman in front – Polly – had two tattoos wrapped around her huge, visible forearms. Every spare inch of Victor’s skin was hidden behind as many layers as he could get between him and the sea. He could ask them, ask if their particular volunteer detachment had merged with the Women's Royal Naval Service yet, but he didn’t. Decided it could be a topic of conversation on the  _ Justinian _ . He doubted they could cross that boiling swell in five minutes.  He blinked against the backdraft of pipe-smoke into his eyes.

The sea groaned.

The woman behind him grinned. “Nothin’ to worry about, my love. Not for us.”

There was a particular adage about the guns in Flanders, how they could be heard from London when the wind was right. What would happen to the guns of a ship, he thought. What would happen when they sank.

All at once, the finer points of the  _ Justinian  _ hove into view. The sea mist had disappeared somewhat around its bulk (or maybe they were just that far out to sea), leaving behind it a screaming spindrift off the side. There was another deep groan, followed by a subtle but unmistakable shudder. The feeling something was terribly wrong. The woman at the back of the boat tapped his shoulder again and pointed silently to their left. He allowed his eyes time to adjust to the water and the mid-afternoon gloom. All that he could see was grey, the sky and the sea and the ships. The wide spread of it and the poor visibility it yielded obscured anything that might have been a landmark. Even the Isle of Wight lay in an inglorious bulk almost utterly indistinguishable. He couldn’t see anything, until he thought he could see something. Then it was gone.

“Submarine,” came the burr from behind. “One of them new E-classes.”

Victor trained his eyes on the horizon again, determined to rake out a view. He could see nothing, which made it worse. The image of it slinking off, deep and dark beneath them.

“Frankenstein!”

Victor’s neck snapped up.

“That’ll be your welcome, lad,” said Polly, pulling an oar into the little boat and using her free hand to pull them in closer. “I’ve got this end of the scramble. Been a pleasure. Good luck, Sub-Lieutenant.”

Victor nodded, and tried to stand. He decided that standing would not be viable in this water.

“Jump!” Came the same distant voice from the top of the scramble net. “You’ll be alright!”

Victor clenched his teeth together.

“He’s not wrong,” said the voice of the woman behind him, whom he’d never learnt the name of. “Worst comes to the worst, we’ll fish you out.” She clapped him heavily on the back, which seemed to serve to propel him further forward than he’d like to go.

He tried to raise himself again, tentatively, determined not to look like how he felt in front of his new companions. Who he’d be ensconced with for who could tell how long.

The rope was salty and rough. “You just climb!” called Polly over his shoulder, one of her big, strong hands attached to the netting alongside his. “Ain’t as far as it looks!”

He doubted that.

The metal was bruisingly cold. The first contact skinned all the skin from his knuckles, the soft pads of his fingers red raw from where they held the rope and where he’d held them so tight to each other against his poorly knit gloves. He felt a faint pang of disgust for himself; the obvious lack of seamanship and masculinity he showed. Then he bit his tongue and resolved to climb and said, “I’m sure you’re right.”

The enormous glut of the ship served to shelter him from the worst of the wind scything in from the Channel. The height, which he’d found so repellent at first, may well be for the best, he decided. It couldn’t be too far to fall if we sank. He hadn’t even got his sea-chest. It was just his own sorry self he had to haul up. Wet and slightly wind-lagged. Minor wool-soaking. If he was in the Army he’d be able to sit beside a fire in the Officers’ Mess. God knows what the Navy had in lieu. A boiler. The engine room.

“That’s it, it’s not much farther!” The voice from the deck seemed a lot closer, now. Victor chanced a glance up. Not far. Still too far. The metal slipped against his hands, grating on the wet neophyte skin beneath it. A hot burst of energy materialised in his stomach to propel him, through discomfort and hatred alone, to the top of the scramble net.

A firm set of hands grasped the back of his overcoat and helped to heave him aboard. He landed, undignified, in a heap alongside the ship’s low walls. The deck was wooden, he noticed. Somehow he hadn’t been expecting that.

“Oh, bugger. Are you alright?” The owner of the voice squatted next to him, almost invisible between the weather and the dark shadow his peak cap cast with what little remained of the light. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine.” Victor picked himself up, slipping again on the wet wood. He dug his feet in, the heels of his new boots sticking.

“Takes some time,” said the voice, utterly incongruous with its surroundings. “Never easy to get your legs right, even if you’ve been at sea before. Every ship reacts differently to the swells. She’s got her own set of quirks. You’ll come to realise.” He held out his hand, beaming.

“Sub-Lieutenant Clerval. Henry.”

Victor nodded soberly and took the hand. The wet wool of his charity gloves squeezed water out over the fingers of Henry’s. Regulation leather. Soft as butter.

Henry either did not notice or did not mind. He kept his smile, which only made his round face look more boyish.

“Victor,” said Victor.

“Victor,” repeated Henry. Then he let go of Victor’s hand and said brightly, “Welcome to purgatory!”

Victor, while attempting to shift his weight from one foot to the other, glanced up at Henry. The switch in his concentration almost caused him to lose his balance.

“Surely it can’t be that bad?”

Henry cocked his head, still grinning. “Come on. Let me show you to your berth, at least”.

He pulled a door open - rust-encrusted and at total odds with the wooden deck. It had left deep gouges on the wet woodwork. All the while, Henry talked.

“You’re not too far from the back, with me. I think it’s the idea we should be stationed together. Not that that should usually be the case with the junior officers, but we’ve got half a dozen Marines on board and they’ve got to fit somewhere. So it’s the subalterns who take the cut, as per usual.” He held open another door, this one leading down a set of viciously spiralled stairs. Victor put his foot on the first one, gingerly, and waited for Henry to overtake.

“You lead the way, I’ll point you out if you go too far wrong. Not that there are too many places to go. Ever been on a half-jack before?”

“I’ve never been - on a ship before,” said Victor, pausing his speech to allow space for a particularly big wave. Henry didn’t seem to notice.

“Half-jack’s not a bad place to start. Big enough to be comfortable, not big enough to lose you in it. Did you have a chance to get on the ships-of-the-line at Dartmouth? They’ve got a second and a third rate there. I spent half my bloody life up and down them. Of course, I heard they’re cutting the training time, so maybe they’ve taken out the on-decks. Not that it did a lot. That’s it, straight down. Strange choice for you to go into the Navy? Father a Navy man, is he?””

Victor hoped his bitter silence would do instead of a reply.

“They wouldn’t accept me, at first. Got in on my third attempt. Not that there’s been a lot to see, Victor. I just got in for the tail end of Dogger Bank and then it was time to go home again. We’ve been here since March.”

“Just, sitting here?”

Henry turned around and winked. “Bricks in the wall”

Half-jacks were modelled on the  _ Borodino _ class, with minimum specifications and maximum inconvenience. They were built low and ugly. They were also exceedingly cheap to produce, Victor supposed bitterly. Bricks in the wall, indeed. Union Jacks, Jacks-of-the-Line, Jack of all trades. Depending on whom you listened to.

Although he was still talking, Victor imagined that he felt Henry’s disposition dissipate the further into the ship they got. They were deep here, he supposed. Not deep as below the waterline, as such, but deep into the workings of the ship. The engine room, the boilers. Somewhere where you might not want to be, if the worst came to the worst.

Henry stopped and knocked on another door to their left. They had, so far as Victor could tell, all seemed to be identical. Henry met his eye and raised cocked his eyebrows once. He had visibly clenched his jaw.

“Gunroom,” he said. He didn’t explain why he knocked.

The door opened from the inside, rather than be opened by Henry himself. A good natured face appeared round it. “Henry!”

“Hi, Pete,” Henry replied, wrapping him in a loose, one-handed hug. “Look who I’ve got.”

Pete did, and his face didn’t change. Whether he wasn’t impressed or he didn’t care, Victor didn’t know, and couldn’t seem to muster up the ability to care himself. It didn’t help the queasy fluttering of his stomach.

Anxious to sit down, Victor took Henry’s silent hand wave as an invitation into the gunroom and sat rather hurriedly on the first chair he could manage to find. Satisfied he could use the excuse of taking the weight of his feet, at least, he allowed himself the minor luxury of scanning his surroundings, for what felt like the first time since he’d left the the Naval Board hours ago.

Like everything else he had seen thus far - and, he suspected, most things in the Navy as a whole - the ship’s anterior was coloured entirely in shades of grey. Two buzzing electrical lights sat embedded in the wall, augmented by three paraffin lamps swinging from the low ceiling. The chairs, which sat in odd clumps of three, one of which he was sitting in, were the same gunmetal grey. It looked like the entire ship had been outfitted had been welded out of one huge sheet. A symbolic attempt to vary the fittings was present in a large wardroom table, which took up almost every spare inch of viable floorspace and created a narrow moat in which all movement had to be undertaken. A seamap was half open, held down by two dinner knives and an orange.

“This him?”

Henry looked up from the position he’d let himself relax into, on the opposite side of Victor in an almost perfect mirror. Now that his duty was done, he’d become very quiet. The one time that Victor wished he would continue talking. Worse, Henry inclined his head towards Victor. Pete redirected the question to him.

“You him?”

Victor cleared his throat.

“By ‘him’....”

“He’s the new subbie,” said Henry, apparently not all as silent as he looked.

Pete regarded him under his shadowed brow. “I thought so.”

Victor didn’t know what to say. He gave Pete a tight smile.

“First time on a half-jack?”

“First time on a ship.”

Pete sat heavily on the chair next to Henry. “Well, fuck me.”

Victor had been expecting this. Henry put what appeared to be a warning hand on Pete’s leg. His demeanour, however, indicated he felt more or less the same. So, to be honest, did Victor.

They let an uncomfortable silence pass through them.

Victor coughed. “How… many are there?”

“Berthed here?”

Victor, not sure entirely what he meant himself, nodded.

“The five of us. Senior officers at the top.”

Victor allowed his gaze to drift to the pole in the corner of the room. Pete followed his gaze. “Wardroom’s above.”

Victor nodded, as if this made sense.

“I think he needs something to drink, Pete.”

Victor started, panicking about what would happen to his already frail stomach. “Oh, no please-”

Henry, not to be defeated, was already on his feet.

Amidst the general clutter of the room was a large, cast iron urn. It was wedged on top of a tiny sideboard, itself looking defeated in the shadow of the enormous table between him and it. There was a sink, he noted, and some used-looking cups. Victor wondered vaguely where the water came from.

“Want it gunfire?” asked Henry

“I… excuse me?”

Henry, pulling down the lever on the urn and turned to face him. His good natured expression hadn’t changed. “Do you want rum in it?”

“Oh. No, thank you.”

Henry exchanged a glance with Pete. Victor did his best not to question it and to feel the indignant burn in his chest.

The cup was delivered to him. The tin made it too hot for Henry to hold in his bare hands, so he’d wrapped it in a teacloth, which he left with Victor. “Milk and sugar are in there already,” he said apologetically. “They put them in at the source. Sorry.”

“Just sits there and stews,” said Pete. He offered Victor a cigarette. Victor took it, feeling like he ought to.

They sat and smoked in silence. Victor wondered when his tea would be cool enough to drink. Tin mugs.

Henry was looking down at his feet. Pete, with his head back against the wall, was following the trajectory of his gaze to the ceiling. Victor felt like he should say something.

In the end, Pete broke the silence.

“You been briefed yet?”

Victor shook his head, firmly, once.

“You going to be?”

“I- hope so.”

“So do I.”

They let the silence lapse again.

There was a metallic clanking from down the hall. They all listened to it grow until it coalesced itself at the door.

A man in sub-lieutenant’s epaulettes walked in, took a tin from the sideboard and left without saying a word.

The silence doubled in intensity. Victor felt that he should question it, but if any time was wrong to, he supposed it would be this one. He caught his two companions looking at each other again. What relationship was it they had, he thought, where so little could be conveyed with a glance? As if they understood each other? Would he find himself a friend like that, or was it unique to them? Was it camaraderie bourne from mere time alone? From shared experiences?

Experiences. Those, more than anything, put the fear of God into him. The sea, the sea. The open sea. The worse things which happened. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and thought, unbidden, of that submarine which had slipped so easily beneath the waves.

Henry and Pete were speaking in low voices. Henry got up. He beamed at Victor.

“Come on, then. Let me show you to your berth.”

Victor followed him, feeling none more settled than he had done from when he first arrived on board. Henry took him back through the gunroom door, and Victor’s heart sank at the thought of navigating those stairs again in reverse. However, Henry directed him left, and almost immediately stopped.

“Well. It’s not much. They never are.”

The room in front of them was stacked in three bunks, each screwed to the wall and rusty with sea water. High above and between two of them shone the weak dregs of the afternoon light. His sea chest, which he had forgotten about, was at the foot of one of them.

“You’re on the bottom, Victor. I hope you don’t mind. We moved Styles up to the top. In case there’s any sort of - emergency in the night.”

The catch in his voice caught Victor right in his insecurity.

“What do you mean by that?”

“We’re at war, Mr. Frankenstein. Anything could happen. Better to have three officers on duty immediately than two and one of them still struggling out of his bunk.”

“And this Styles doesn’t deserve the privilege because-?”

Henry blinked at him. “Oh, Styles. He isn’t an officer. There are too many beds for all of them so one of the more senior ratings berths with us. Else we’d waste a bed. He’s not a problem.”

“I wasn’t insinuating that he was,” said Victor distractedly, taking in his surroundings. The bedclothes were made of rough wool, but the sheets themselves looked clean and serviceable enough. The ever-present fug of smoke was thicker here than in the gunroom. He thought of his unsmoked cigarette by his unfinished tea.

Henry was surveying him out of the corner of his eye. “You seem to have a rather radical edge to you, Mr Frankenstein.”

Victor was rather taken aback. “Oh?”

Henry looked at him benevolently, appearing amused.

“Yes. I rather think that’s the impression I’m picking up from you.”

“Well.” said Victor.

Henry cracked a grin. “I’ll keep it in mind if I hear any rumblings of dissent. I’ll leave you get yourself unpacked; Pete and I will be in the gunroom, I daresay. Pop back in and finish your tea. I’ll take you up to number one later on. He’s expecting you to want some time to get yourself equated.”

Victor nodded. He felt as if he’d done nothing except nod since his arrival.

Henry gave him a final smile and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Henry made his way quietly back down the corridor, doing his best not to draw attention to himself. Pete was still in the gunroom. His heart grew despite itself.

“Get him installed, did you?” asked Pete.

Henry nodded, smiling. “Taking him up to the captain after he’s had a chance to settle down a bit. Get used to it all.”

“I’ll do that Henry, you sit yourself down for fuck’s sake. You’re not doing anyone any good running yourself ragged.”

“I’m  _ fine _ , Pete, I - like to keep myself busy.”

“There’s a line between ‘busy’ and overwork”

“Yes, I am most reliably informed  there is.”

“Don’t you start that flippancy shit with me.”

Henry tried to smile at him. “Who says I’m starting anything with you?”

Pete, not to be taken in, fixed him with a stony glare, before giving in and running a hand through Henry’s hair.

“I want it noted than I’m not happy with this.”

“Taken on board, sub-lieutenant. Pending review.”

“Christ, Henry, you’re a nightmare.”

“I try my best to be, Pete. Now are you going to get me a cup of tea or am I going to have to run the risk of overtaxing myself by getting up to make one?”

“I’ll make you one, but I’ll spit in it.”

“I’m willing to take that risk, Pete.”

Pete manoeuvred himself around the tiny kitchenette, with his jaw visibly but good-naturedly clamped. “Of course, there are no biscuits.”

“Yes, I did notice that.”

“Do you think we should say anything? To Frankenstein?”

“About what, Pete?”

Henry’s frank, open face almost broke Pete’s heart. “You know what, Henry,” he said gently.

“Why? What good would it do? The man is half petrified already. I’m not going to add to that.”

“And you think that’s the best thing to do?”

Henry stretched up and put his feet on the overlarge table. “No, I don’t. I think it’s the only viable course of action. Especially at the moment.”

“Are you about to tell me there’s a war on?”

“I might be,” Henry smiled again. Pete pushed his mug towards him, and nodded towards Victor’s. “He coming back, is he?”

Henry nodded, his nose buried in his mug. He seemed to be able to drink it at whatever temperature it arrived. Pete supposed it was a skill. “Coming back after he’s finished unpacking. Not that I suppose there’s much to do.”

“Do you think he’s-”

“Sitting on his bed moping? Of course he is. It’s a rite of passage, is it not?”

Pete smiled wanly. “You’re so hard on yourself.”

“No more than anyone else. Do you think I should look in on him?”

“Leave him be. It’s the last chance he’ll get to be alone his whole professional life.

A muscle twitched in Henry’s jaw. Pete read it, with the attention of a man who knew his way home in the dark.

“He won’t, Henry.”

“I know.”

There was a knock at the door. Henry reached over to open it, stretching as far from his chair as he could. A smile slid back over his face like someone was painting it on with a roller.

“Victor! You don’t always have to knock you know. I tend to use it as a precaution in case someone is standing behind the door. Pete never bothers.”

Victor, looking paler and more clammy than he had before, smiled with his lips pressed tightly together and sat back down on his original chair.  _ Seasick _ , Henry noticed, with a small inward grin.  _ Who’d have thought _ .

“You don’t have to finish that, you know,” he said, as Victor toyed half heartedly with his mug of lukewarm tea. “It’ll take you a while to get used to, at any rate. Let me take you up to the Captain before dinner. Help you feel more at home.”

Victor nodded again, and unfolded himself. He was taller than optimum for naval service, Henry noted. His rather proud five foot eight allowed him to skitter around in the underbelly of the ship with only minimum concern for what happened to the top of his head. Frankenstein must be over six feet. Thank God he wasn’t on a submarine. They seemed to be dropping standards like a thief through a floorboard the further into the war they got. If dragging of Captain Keene out of retirement hadn’t signalled it, the turn to neo-press ganging which Victor seemed to have stemmed hinted at it more plainly than ever. Henry wondered how he’d managed to get here in the first place. However, he seemed to be picking his way back through the body of the ship relatively easily. Maybe there were hidden depths to him, after all.

“You seem to have a natural sense of direction blessed onto you, Mr Frankenstein!”

Frankenstein turned around and seemed to give him a real smile, albeit small. “It’s as you say, Mr Clerval. There is a limit to the places one can get lost.”

“That is a very true adage, Victor. May I call you Victor?”

“Please do.”

“Only if you call me Henry.”

“It would be my pleasure. Henry.”

Henry paused, one hand on the ladder to the first deck. “I’m beginning to think my initial impression of you was wrong, Mr Frankenstein. You seem a stander on ceremony.”

Frankenstein, as he seemed to wont to do, responded with a half cock of the head and what may be read as a smile. “It would not be the first time I had given that impression by accident, Mr Clerval.”

“By accident?” Henry smiled. “And there was me thinking it was so deliberately cultivated.”

“As I said, you would not be the first.”

“Radical family, have you?”

“None such of the sort, Clerval.”

“Henry, please.”

“Henry. None such of the sort.”

“Well. I suppose that speaks of your opinion on the matter more concisely than I could. Victor.”

Victor, again. That wan, frustrating smile. “For you to decide, Henry.”

Henry bit the inside of his cheek. “Out of line for me to ask. You’re right.”

Frankenstein didn’t answer.

Henry pushed on through the uncomfortable silence he had started. “This floor. It’s probably best if you go first- Anyway, this floor. You’ll hear it called a lot of things. ‘The Captain’s Floor’. ‘The Old Man’s’. Et cetera et cetera. All it means is that the Captain lives up here. Which I’m sure you’ve gathered.” He just about stopped biting himself again. While Victor might be that clueless about the Navy, surely he was not so that he didn’t know what a captain was. Or perhaps he was, and didn’t want attention drawn. Surely, that wasn’t the case. As if he had anything proper to judge on how he saw those less fortunate. As if he had any authority on that.

Victor, meanwhile, was trying his best to keep steady on the ladder in front of Henry. He pulled himself to the top like a freezing man out of an ice hole.

“There we are!” said a cheery voice from behind. Henry. God damn him. “Move along- there we go. So!” Henry pulled himself up to his full, and somewhat diminutive height. “Now. The wardroom is just along here. More or less where we’ve just come from. The damn rooms are on top of each other. There we are, Victor, you lead the way. You seem to have nature’s gift here…”

Nature’s gift, thought Victor bitterly. As if there were many he possessed. That infernally cheery voice kept pushing him on. Victor pulled himself up to as full as his height would let him, under the roofing circumstances, and did his best to paint a sweet-looking smile on his face.

“I’m sure I don’t. Henry. I would feel far more at ease if you took the lead.”

Henry looked startled.  _ Good _ , thought Victor.  _ Let him be _ .

Henry overtook Victor quietly, and beckoned him to follow, losing none of his previous friendliness, Victor noted enviously. It came to the man like a duck to water. He hated the types. Irrationally, he supposed. As if that took away anything to do with how he felt. Were feelings not, by definition, irrational? Surely, the decades’, centuries’ worth of poetry and literature had something to say on the matter. Not one to have much to do with either, even he could say so. He was sure the likes of Henry with his undoubtedly Classical education, could set him right if that were not the case.

The door to the Captain’s chambers, or the wardroom, Victor supposed he must call it now he was on a ship, looked much the same as the gunroom had. With his sub-par knowledge of ships and shipbuilding, he had pieced together himself the fact that the gunroom hadn’t been used to store guns of any sort. With he and Henry and the like, it was somewhere to relegate junior officers. The subalterns. They on whom the war was to be pinned, apparently. So the war dispatches said. The papers, or those in Bromley. Why he were to trust that Bromley had anything to say that was unbiased or worth listening to was testament solely to his upbringing. That was, he supposed, why he was here. To find his voice and what it wanted to say. To keep his conscience what it was. Not that it was meant to be easy. Especially considering where he was from, and what it meant, and how it was represented. The stabbing pain in his back told him that he lacked the common sense and confidence to follow this through. He steeled himself against this. He was here. Surely, he got credit for being here. Here. Where he was needed. At the frontline, the forefront. Here, among those who had signed up for reasons which they would advertise or take pride in or hate. Dead family members, he assumed. It often came down to that. The dead.

But what would he say if he were asked?

He hoped that Henry would not stay for his meeting with Keene. Hopefully discretion between officers stretched that far.

Henry delivered him up to the wardroom door and knocked smartly. His grin was beginning to tighten How could he smile like that, all the time? Did his cheeks not get sore?

A lordly voice asked them to enter.

Henry swung the door open and introduced Frankenstein to the familiar figure at the Captain’s table.

“Thank you, Clerval.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Henry gave a smart half bow and turned on his heel, closing the door behind him. That quick entrance had knocked Victor off guard, somewhat.

“Victor.”

Yes.

He turned around, back to the matter at hand. He did his best to copy Henry’s bow. “Sir.”

“You’re looking well, Frankenstein.”

Victor unfolded and allowed himself to look at the man behind the table full in the face. Adam Keene did not look well. His face, always like an unmade bed, was deeper and craggier than Victor had ever recalled it being. His hair, which he had managed to retain, was a mousey grey. He wore a small amount of stubble, Victor noticed. Perhaps the geography of his face made it difficult to shave these days. Perhaps he had developed a palsy. He sat behind his customary retainer of heavy looking manuals; logs, charts. A novel was bound to be in there somewhere. A decanter of a thick amber liquid was to their side. The debris and detritus looked as if they had more life in them than their owner.

Frankenstein realised he should reply. “Thank you, sir.”

“No need to repay the compliment, I know that I am far from that mark. And likely to remain that way.” He got, totteringly, to his feet. In any other circumstance Victor would help him, or at least make his offer known. As he had in the past. Bound by protocol, he had no idea how he was to respond now he was on duty. Keene leant hard on the corner of his table and offered his hand to Frankenstein.

“It’s good to see you again, Victor.”

Victor took it. “And you, Captain.”

“Wish it could be under more relaxed circumstances. You’re to join my bushel of Subs, I hear?”

“You hear correctly, sir.”

“Good. We need men like you, Frankenstein. Men with a bit of spirit. A bit of initiative in their heads.”

Victor wondered if he’d got him confused with someone else.

“I see that you’ve met Mr Clerval?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s a good lad. You’ll do well with him. I’m afraid we can’t offer you the most exciting of times, Frankenstein.” The Captain was making his way, tremulously, back to his chair. He did not offer a seat to Frankenstein. Instead, he uncorked the decanter and poured a healthy measure into a glass before him. It didn’t look as if it had been cleaned since the last time.

“Brandy?” he offered.

“No, thank you sir.”

“Keeps the cold off. I daresay you’ll find that out. What was I saying?”

“You cannot offer me the most exciting time. Sir.”

“Oh, of course. Not in Spithead, at any rate. I cross my fingers we may get our marching orders soon.”

Victor bit the inside of his cheek. “Where are we likely to be posted, sir?”

“That, Victor, I wouldn’t be able to tell you if I knew. And the word is ‘deployed’, for future reference.”

“Apologies, sir.”

Keene waved him off. “No need to apologise, I-” A rumble started at the back of his throat. He coughed it out. “I expect you have a lot to pick up. Didn’t fancy following your father into medicine, then?”

“No, sir.” He left out that he had disliked the idea of going into combat medicine in particular. As if it might somehow mitigate the fact that he might have to see bodily carnage.

Keene coughed again, stifled it. “I see. And the Navy, because?”

Victor swallowed. “Call it a calling, sir.”

“That I shall. Have you met any other officers, Frankenstein? Aside from Clerval?”

“I’ve met a man called Pete, sir, but I didn’t catch a second name.”

“Clayton. Yes, I should have guessed, if Clerval had anything to do with it. I daresay you’ll become acquainted with the rest in due time. I’d like to see you up here after supper to meet my first, second and third.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you feel confident about finding your way down, or shall I ask Clerval to fetch you?”

“I see no reason why he should be so inconvenienced again, sir.”

“Thoughtful of you, Frankenstein. Send my regards to your father.”

“I shall, sir. And he sends his to you.”

“Yes, very good. I’ll see you after supper, Frankenstein.”

“Yes, sir,” Victor agreed, hoping he’d be able to get the dinner timings out of Henry.

He didn’t have too long to mull it over, because as soon as the words had left his mouth a siren sounded.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> body horror cw

Trying not to look startled, Victor backed into the closest thing to him and gripped the door handle. Keene, to his amazement, did not seem half as alarmed. He was looking up at the ceiling, almost inconvenienced.

“What the bloody hell do you suppose that could be?”

Something rammed into Victor’s back, hard. He exclaimed, pushed forward by some sudden compelling force and spared a panicked glance at Keene. Something started hammering.

“Get away from the bloody door!”

He had been standing right in front of it. Now it wanted to open.

He extricated himself as quickly as he could, doing his best not to draw attention from Keene or the man who he’d unwittingly locked out of the wardroom. The door burst open and a lieutenant spilled in, all wet wool and dripping rain.

“Sir, it’s Lowe. He’s back.”

Keene’s demeanour changed in a heartbeat. He leant, both hands on his desk. Low and powerful.

“What do you mean he’s _back_?”

“He’s… back, sir. On the ship.”

“What in hell’s name is he doing?”

A beat of silence passed through the cabin. The lieutenant seemed to be doing his best to measure his voice. “I think you should come and have a look, sir.”

Keene collected himself together. “Very well. And get that bloody alarm turned off.”

The man nodded, and took off back down the corridor, doing everything in his power to run without actually running. Keene followed. Victor supposed he should, as well.

The alarm was still sounding, low honking pulses of sound that chased each over the beginning and the end of each other. It was bone-jarringly unpleasant. He wondered if it would sound the same outside of all this metal.

The gritty blue tread of the corridor was worn thin where he followed it. Up ahead, he could see an open hatch and a ladder with Keene at the bottom of it. Victor’s heart skipped a beat thinking of the many ways which that could end. Keene, however, didn’t seem worried. He simply looked at Victor and said mildly, “Oh, you’re coming, are you? I suppose you might as well.”

Feeling stung, Victor made his way up the ladder behind Keene, at a far slower pace than he would have liked. How on earth did this man have command of a ship. A little intricacy only the Navy would know. A short and bloody war, wasn’t that the toast?

Light had fallen quickly out on deck. The first prickings of stars were about visible under the low, thick layer of cloud. The silhouette of the Isle of Wight was completely hidden against the sky. The deck was lit up with the same low-wattage strip lamps that he had seen down in the gunroom. They buzzed. They cast a light strong enough to see by, and one which picked up the misty rain and the water on deck like a city at night. They gave him more than enough light to see the little knot of men around the middle of the deck. It was almost where he had landed earlier that day – an hour ago, and hour and a half? – when Henry had pulled him aboard after scrambling up the side. No-one on the deck seemed to be moving.

Keene reached the edge of the crowd and stood very still. They all looked at him, expectant. Victor didn’t suppose he should go any further.

He hung back in the shadows, hoping not to be seen, or at least not to be seen yet. There didn’t seem to be a lot of action taking place around the group on deck. They were standing around a bundle on the deck. Victor supposed that it was Lowe.

He caught flashes on conversation, floating over the metal carapace.

“-idea what did for him?”

Someone, the other side of Lowe from Victor, knelt on deck. He could hear the wet wood protesting. They gestured to someone else to look at what they were looking at.

The someone else gave a long, low whistle.

“Get the doctor to declare it.”, said Keene. His voice sounded very low.

The person who was kneeling stood up, stepped over the body, came over to the door Victor was standing in. He almost fell over him. The two looked at each other in startled surprise. The other man didn’t even seem to register they hadn’t met before.

“Oh, it’s you is it? The new chap. You’ll be his replacement.”

“Sir?”

The man nodded over to the deck. “Lowe’s. Go and have a look, it’ll do you good. I’m off to fetch the MO.”

Victor nodded and watched him go. He wondered what the medical officer would be able to do for the man. He didn’t look to be moving.

In tracking the sullen man’s movements, a clutch of heads had turned to where Victor was standing. He supposed that meant he should introduce himself. Always such a stander on ceremony. Damn Henry.

He locked his knees and picked his way across the soaking deck.

Keene was the last to see him.

“Victor.”

“Sir,” he said, and nodded. Nobody else said anything. Victor looked down.

The man at his feet was obviously dead, and was soaking wet. Drowned. They must have pulled him from the water when they came to get Keene. Victor wondered how long he’d been missing.

The hatch opened again and a balding man came blustering forward. Victor stepped aside. The medical officer got to both knees and pulled up the man’s half closed eyelids. Against his greenish skin. Victor looked away discreetly.

The medical officer opened the man’s mouth. There were two tongues.

He sat back on his haunches. “Well, that’ll be what did it.”

“What do you think it was?”

“God knows.” He got to his feet and took his gloves off, putting them in his back pocket so that they stuck out like feathers. “Anyone else touched him?”

The man Victor had been conversing with earlier raised a hand, almost sheepishly. The MO eyed him.

“There’s a bottle of disinfectant in my cabin. I want you to wash with it and leave your uniform in the corner.”

The man nodded. “Sir.”

“Bloody fucking idiot,” said the medical officer after he’d departed. “Should have known it would be him. Right lads, get him wrapped up. I don’t want anyone else making _that_ same mistake. Who in hell’s name set the alarm off?”

Nobody answered. The man who had come into Keene’s cabin the first time looked around either side of him. It didn’t seem to escape the MO’s notice.

“ _Whoever_ it was, I expect Captain Keene will have it dealt with in due process. Sod off, the lot of you.”

They dispersed, two retrieving what looked like a heavy waxed tarpaulin from a metal cache locked and bolted by the entrance Victor himself had scrambled up. He looked at them rather than at the dead man and his tongues. He hadn’t moved his head since he’d caught a glimpse of them. Accidentally.

He wondered how he had died. So wet. Had he simply drowned? Had he…. suffocated on his extra tongue? How had he made it back on deck? Had he climbed all that way only to die?

An avuncular hand landed on his shoulder. “Brandy,” said Keene’s voice. For once, he didn’t feel like refusing.

*

Back in Keene’s cabin, after a large quantity of brandy had been poured into a glass and set before him, Victor asked what he’d wanted to ask from the start. Keene knew it was coming.

“Victor. I wish I could give you an answer.”

“Sir. Surely you must have some idea what – happened.”

Keene shrugged, concealed a cough. “I have as good an idea as anyone on this ship, Victor. Sub-Lieutenant Lowe went missing three weeks ago. Once it was clear he wasn’t coming back, we requested a replacement. You arrived. That is all I know.”

“What do you mean, when it was obvious he wasn’t coming back?”

“It’s the sea, Victor. Things happen. Men desert. Some can go mad. Some can - do other things. Or have other things happen to them.”

Victor didn’t want to delve into that.

Keene seemed to wait. Maybe to let it sink in. Then he said; “Evidently, he’s returned now. It’s best not to dwell.”

Victor didn’t know how he couldn’t.

“How did he – get back, sir?”

Keene sighed and shrugged. It was a strangely childlike gesture. “I don’t know,” he said. “We won’t. Take my advice and don’t think about it. Go and get something to eat. The mess bell is about to go. You’ve got last dog, if I’m not mistaken.”

Dogwatch, Victor thought. Glad to match his officer training to something at last. “Of course, sir.”

“Go. You know your way back to the gunroom?”

Victor nodded, unsure that he did but not wanting to admit as such. God, he was hopeless. This was a mistake. All of it. Him being here, him being…. involved. In any way. Here at all, out here at all. Him with access to any sort of weapon. Him on the front line in any sort of way.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Keene didn’t have to notice these things.

“Dismissed,” said Keene. He didn’t appear to have.

Victor made his way back down the corridor. God, this place was like a prison. Newly outfitted, the smell of paint still vaguely permeated. Paint and wet metal. Stale air.

He reached the ladder. _Why were they so much harder going down than going up_? He kept his hands still. Half of his mind was still on the deck.

He reached the gunroom and considered knocking. Henry had. But then Henry had told him he didn’t have to. Which way would look more professional? Following an example or following advice? He opted to knock. In case somebody was behind. It would serve as a warning if nothing else.

He did so. Then he opened the door. Asserting his confidence as an officer by coming in anyway.

The gunroom was not empty, but it was silent. Some food had been delivered at some point, Victor noticed. It had to have come from somewhere, but there was no sign of who had brought it or from where. Nobody seemed to be touching it. Another man had been added. He looked up and met Victor's eye, raising his eyebrows briefly in greeting. Victor did the same to him. This would be the fourth sub. There were five of them. There was one left to meet.

Victor took a seat left vacant, which was quickly becoming his customary one.

From down the hall, he heard the beginnings of a ruckus pick up. Schoolground sounds. Men laughing and larking. The ratings’ mess, he guessed. Henry got up and left.

Pete watched him go, his eyebrows raised. Victor tracked his progress to the door, ready to stand in case he was needed. It seemed like someone should follow him. Someone ought to make sure he wasn’t alone. Pete must have sensed it, because he caught Victor’s eye and shook his head imperceptibly.

“Best to leave him, mate. Stew?”

Victor nodded, passing his plate over. The invitation to dinner from Keene seemed to have died along with the discovery of Lowe. Victor couldn’t blame him. The plate was made of hammered tin. There had been a cursory attempt to enamel it. The blue edging matched the tin cup. Perhaps it was deliberate.

Pete offered him the ladle of the stewpot. He couldn’t make out any discernible ingredients.

“We call it ‘brown stew’,” said the new man. “Can’t imagine why. James Hether.”

Victor took his hand. “Victor Frankenstein.”

Pete chewed some meat, considering. “Victor’s a good, solid name. Like a horse’s name.”

“Saint Victor,” said Hether, tipping a mug towards Victor.

“Victor Emanuelle. Pope Victor. Antipope Victor, come to think of it.”

“Victor Hugo, of course.”

“Victor de Broglie. Quite a pedigree you’ve got to follow through on, Frankenstein.”

“Yes. I hope I can be of service,” he said. It seemed like the only thing he could say.

“Oh, we all hope that,” said Hether. “Have as much stew as you like, by the way. It feeds a hundred. The kitchen churn it out like nobody’s business. We get the same as the ratings, but they hope if they leave a pot with us we won’t complain as much. You get a spirit ration, too.”

“I’m on watch.”

“All the more reason to have one. You’ll get it after. You’ll need it.”

Victor thought of his brandy from earlier.

As if on cue, Pete – or Clayton, as Victor should probably start calling him- casually brought up Victor’s pre-dinner activities. “Heard they found Lowe.”

“Heard they found more than they were bargaining for,” said Hether, reaching over for more stew. Victor felt a pang of indignancy on the dead man’s behalf. He wondered if he should say something. He would like to imagine someone would speak up on his behalf if it was him who had died like – that.

“Ah, so you heard about that as well?”

“From the horse’s mouth. Who told you?”

Clayton waved the question away. “It’s all over the place. Two-Tongue Harry Lowe. Imagine what you could do with that, eh?”

Victor put down his knife and fork more decisively than he intended.

Both looked at him. Hether’s face softened marginally.

“You’ll get used to it. People live and then they die. You get used to taking it lightly.”

Victor felt his expression stay exactly the same. Maybe he should try to look more understanding. Even though he didn’t, and hoped he never would, understand.

“Well, not lightly,” said Hether. “That was a poor choice of words. Of course you never take it lightly. You just – deal with it, I suppose. Make out that it isn’t that scary. It’s only death.”

A beat.

“But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t deserve some dignity. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Victor didn’t mention that it wasn’t him who had said the comment in the first place. Although Clayton, to his credit, had the good grace to look sheepish.

“Do you know how he got back on board?” he asked, seeming more dignified. Victor hoped it wasn’t just for his benefit.

“Yeah, that was bloody strange. Reckon he’d just been lying doggo for a bit?”

Clayton shook his head, his mouth full. “Not like that. Something had to put him there.”

“Just flop him on board like a landed fish?”

“Why not? You head stories. Had a cousin in the infantry. He says you can hear them, out in No Man’s Land. It’s the shell holes they like.”

“I’ve heard the pilots get a rough deal,” said Hether, conceding the point. “Some of them won’t go up any more. Heard of at least one who was shot for it.”

“Everyone’s heard of at least one pilot shot for cowardice because of it. I heard about Jerry crucifying a Canadian and nailing him to a door.”

“Seems like we’re getting off lightly,” said Hether, with little trace of humour. Clayton smirked wryly.

“See anything on your way up?” asked Hether, inviting Victor into the conversation. Victor rather wished he wouldn’t. There wasn’t anything he could contribute. Certainly not in a meaningful way.

“No, I can’t say I did.” Then, “what sort of things do you mean? To look out for?”

Hether shrugged. “Knowing’s half the battle, I suppose. Sneaky bastards.”

“Them or Jerry?”

“Oh, both of them. Who knows. We’re going to end up on the receiving end of one of them.”

“But why bring him back?”

“Scare us, I suppose. Wait and return him the day of his replacement? That’s got to be deliberate.”

Victor’s spine got colder.

Hether carried on regardless.

“Bloody alarm frightened the life out of me. Thought I was going to shit myself.”

“Some spanner wanker panicked and let the whole ship know.”

“Who found him?”

“God knows. Nobody’s come forward. Chadd’s in medical isolation, though.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Chadd. That must have been the man who had touched him. It. Him. Was he a him, still?

“Knew it would be bloody him. The man can’t do anything without getting gung-ho about it. He thinks he’s Rob Roy. You met him yet?”

This last question was directed at Victor.

“I – yes. Briefly.”

Hether nodded, appearing satisfied. Victor almost broached the subject of the mysterious fifth officer, while they were on the subject of other officers. He didn’t have to, however, as someone he assumed to be the man himself sat himself down. He seemed very vaguely familiar.

He didn’t make any effort to introduce himself to Victor. He barely made an effort to avoid him. The other two had fallen more or less quiet.

“Where’s your mate?” the newcomer asked Clayton at last. He had the pot in front of him. He was eating out of it. Victor wondered if this was standard practice for the last man at the table. Perhaps it saved on washing.

“I don’t know,” said Clayton.

“Course you bloody don’t,” he said under his breath. “And you are?”

“Frankenstein,” said Frankenstein.

The fifth sub-lieutenant looked at him, full in the face. “Frankenstein. Blow a lot of horns, do you?”

“I’m not in the habit of blowing my own,” said Victor. The man’s face didn’t change. Maybe he hadn’t understood the joke.

The other man turned away with an air of dismissal that grated, despite Victor having known him less than a minute and liking him far less than that time would usually permit. Victor opened his mouth to ask the man’s name, but the man was already speaking.

“You look like a twat.”

Victor blinked, startled.

“I’m sure – appearances can be deceiving,” he managed to stutter out, unsure why that is what had sprung to mind first. Clayton got up and left quietly. Victor wondered if he’d just admitted to looking like a twat.

The other man grunted. Victor sensed that the conversation was over. He exchanged a glance with Hether. The man grimaced. “Come and give me a hand with these plates, Victor.”

Victor stood, managing to maintain eye contact with Hether. He did his best to look questioning. Hether pressed three plates to him, and two mugs with the remnants of lukewarm tea. Victor emptied them into the pitiful sink.

Hether stood at the door, one foot propping it open. “Come on now, Mr Frankenstein,” he said, ostentatiously loud. “We don’t want to keep the galley waiting.”

Victor piled the crockery on top of each other into some semblance of order and followed Hether out the door. Hether was holding a clutch of forks in his hand.

“Isn’t there a-” he managed to ask, before someone tall came barrelling down the hall and took the forks off Hether.

“Thank you _very_ much, sir,” he said with a trace of bitterness. “I do love to know I have assistance where my job will allow.”

“Apologies, Styles,” said Hether, gesturing for Victor to hand over the plates he was holding. “Victor, this is Styles. You’ll be seeing a lot of him. Styles, Sub-Lieutenant Victor Frankenstein. He kicked you out of your berth.”

Styles looked Victor up and down. “So you did.”

“Didn’t mean to do your job for you, Styles,” Hether continued. “Simpson’s arrived and he’s in a foul mood.”

This seemed to have some sort of meaning for Styles. He nodded sagely. “Say no more. I’ll go to my quarters and come back with a pistol.”

“Would that you could, Styles.” Victor picked up and undercurrent of decided bitterness. “That would save us all a lot of time and effort.”

“Had a go at you, has he sir?” Styles asked Frankenstein.

Had he? Frankenstein thought back. Being called a twat wasn’t tantamount to what he would call ‘having a go’, necessarily. He seemed to inspire that reaction in people. He’d almost grown used to it.

Hether huffed air out through his gritted teeth. “He’s being generally unpleasant. You know how he is.”

“All too well, sir. I’ll check in on His Nibs and see if there’s anything I can do to him. For him.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Take care, sir.”

“And you too, Styles.”

“And you, Mr Frankenstein,” Styles said, rounding on Victor. “You seem rather his type.”

Victor was beginning to think that perhaps he wouldn’t be able to maintain his carefully constructed unflappable demeanour for much longer. “James, what the devil did he mean by that? Is there something I should be aware of?”

James sucked his cheeks in, visibly. He was schooling his features. Victor was all too aware of the signs that gave away _that_ particular school of acting.

“It’s nothing, Victor.”

“I have to say, that didn’t seem the case.”

“It seemed-” He broke off, then sighed heavily. Silently inclined his head back to the gunroom. “He’s - difficult. He’s the oldest sub here. He’s got more experience than all of us, almost put together. He knows how things should be done, and he _knows_ he knows that. Fancies himself the authority. And I don’t know how true this is, but reading between the lines the impression I get is he has a chip on his shoulder about rank. The whole temporary gentleman routine. Look, if I were you I’d just keep mum around him around the bloke and let that be that. No need to go provoking.”

“I wasn’t-”

Hether held up a pre-emptive hand. “I know, I know. You aren’t to know. It’s just… a fragile subject.”

“I hadn’t guessed,” said Victor, attempting to be dry.

“It’s nothing to… _worry_ about. Don’t let it hang over you.”

 _Don’t dwell_ , thought Victor. _Of course_.

“Should I consider this a word of warning?” he asked.

Hether sighed. “Yes. Alright. If you must. You’re on last dog?”

Victor nodded.

“I’m on First. I’ll come and relive you. Port or Starboard?”

“I don’t know. Captain Keene asked him to report to him first.”

Hether bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. “Last dog. You’re with Henry. He’s usually Second Port.”

“I’ll…. see him on the deck, then.”

Hether nodded tightly and tried to smile. Victor turned smartly on his heel and left up the ladder.

 *

Keene’s office was full of men between his father and Keene’s age. Keene himself was sat in what Victor was beginning to realise must be his customary position on his table amidst the wreckage. His paternal smile at the sight of Victor made Victor want to fall through the floor at a faster rate than he usually did.

“Gentlemen. Our newest _Justinian_.”

Several nods in his direction. A handshake or two. Faces he felt he ought to recognise, not least from standing above the fallen officer on deck. Names he should know. Names he would.

“Victor. Fourth Lieutenant Bathurst. He will be your watch handover.”

Bathurst, who had been the first to shake Victor’s hand, suddenly slid to the frontal cortex of his mind. He’d been the man who had pulled the alarm. It had been half dark, but Victor was sure of it.

“Third Lieutenant Rogers, Second Lieutenant Butlin and First Lieutenant Eccleston. I believe you have met all of your subs?”

Victor bowed his head deferentially. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Please, don’t let me keep you.”

Victor took that for a dismissal. Bathurst, who looked harmless enough, led him towards the stern of the ship. All in all, the _Justinian_ was not large. Not a frigate or a destroyer. Not even, to be honest, a warship. Just a brick in the wall. He and the half jacks.

Bathurst was talking to him. Victor caught the tail end of what he was saying just in time to put together a reply.

“-service long?”

“On the _Justinian_?”

“Generally.”

“No, sir. Just got out of Dartmouth.”

He felt Bathurst’s eye slide over him from the side. “I see.”

Victor winced. He tried to keep it under wraps.

“Is it obvious, sir?”

“No more so than with anyone else, Frankenstein. You’ll be fannying about on deck for the next two years of your life, you’ll get used to it all. The watch station is a bloody state, by the way. Sorry about that.”

“I understand that there was some unpleasantness.”

 _Some unpleasantness_. A man was found drowned with two tongues in his mouth Victor, you demented fool. He managed to cough out “I – my condolences.”

Bathurst shrugged. “Death of a man is never easy. Fellow officer - you spend a lot of time together. You get to know one another. It’s always at the back of your mind, but… brings it home all the more, sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s got nothing to you with you. Long may it not. I barely knew the bloke, to be honest. Your brother subbies might be taking it tough.”

Victor thought of Henry at dinner. Not, he realised, that Henry had eaten anything. He made a vague noise at the back of his throat to show he’d heard.

The watch station, as promised, was an absolute shambles. There were three mugs of tea in varying stages of emptiness, papers covered with tea rings and an ashtray far more ash than tray all competing for scant space between a telegraph and a radio.

“You and a flagger in here. Clerval’s on last dog port. You’ll see him around. Any questions, ask him. That’s what he’s there for. As for your handover, aside from that bit of nastiness you saw on deck this evening I’ve got sweet fanny adams to report.” He fished around on the desk and pulled a heavy book out from underneath the second cup of tea to the right. “Log reports. Read them while I’m here. Any questions, ask me. Book of Abbreviations first drawer. You won’t need it after your first week. If you don’t do anything, keep that log up to date. Use mine as a model. Any changes to the ship or to the crew. Technical or social. That's a legal requirement.”

Victor nodded.

“Inform anyone who comes in the status of your watch station. Liase with the other officer on watch. Communicate with your supervisors. Monitor your equipment-” he tapped the radio. “Flag wagger will take care of that. Compass, draft. Not a lot else to do on an anchor watch. Any deviation, note it down. If you’re not sure it’s right, check. Brain, book, buddy – that’s Clerval – boss. Boss is the last resort. If I get called down here because our prow  course has turned by nine degrees I will - not be happy.”

Victor nodded again, knotting his fingers together in his pocket. Bathurst was, impossibly, still talking. Victor couldn’t remember to do all of this. There was no way. What the hell had be got himself into.

“Not the purpose of logs, but they do force you to follow along. If you’ve got nothing to do, read up. Your job as OOW is to understand how anything that may happen could affect this vessel. That includes maintenance.”

Victor hoped Henry was more confident than he was, including in knowing what an OOW might be.

“Get Clerval to test you.”

Victor most certainly would, although he had the feeling the opposite may well also be true.

Bathurst held his gaze. Victor held it back. Eventually, Bathurst conceded. “Get those logs read. I’m here to talk you through them. If you need.”

Victor screwed his mouth into a semblance of a smile, unsure whether this was a test or a genuine offer of camaraderie.

Logs. These he could manage. These he knew. These he knew. He’d been around logs for years. Medical logs, patient logs, ships’ logs. Shipping channels.

Bathurst had been right. They were, for the most part, exceedingly straightforward. Various half-hourly documentation of the ship’s direction and draft, to monitor the equipment than anything else, he supposed. Notes of who had come in and out. There was a reference to a visiting ‘four o’clocker’ right at the beginning of Bathurst’s most recent entry. Victor made a mental note to ask Henry about that later. He had no desire to further debase himself in the eyes of the lieutenant.

At the end, almost the last thing Bathurst had written before demobbing, ‘ _17:38 OOD, Sb. Lt LOWE, H. A [dec]_ ’.

“All set?”

Victor nodded. “All set, sir.”

“Good to hear. Ink pellets are about, somewhere. Can I leave you to it, Mr Frankenstein?”

“By all means, sir” said Victor, with more confidence than he felt. Bathurst shut the door behind him and he fell almost immediately into panic.

It was like being at school again, thrust into a position and suddenly realising you had to perform your part in it. Memories of a brief stint in Sevenoaks Rugby IXs were making their unbidden way with ill-advised confidence into the forefront of his mind. He shut them out and opened the drawer for the Book of Naval Abbreviations. His mind had been on it since Bathurst clued him in to its existence. ‘OOD’ meant ‘Officer on the Deck’. He had actually known that one. He couldn’t decide if it was an example of flippancy or very dry humour on Bathurst’s part. ‘OOW’, Officer of the Watch. That would be him, then. He hadn’t realised there had been quite so many… ways of saying things in the Navy. Of course, he was clued in to the majority of the jackspeak from books and from Dartmouth, and he knew his way around a navigational chart and a torpedo rig. That’s where, it seemed, most familiarity between him and the Navy had ended. He had thought he’d been rather well armed. Although Dartmouth hadn’t seen fit to bother with more than the very basics, and a lot of that seemed to revolve around relentless PT and an oddly serious amount of skipping. His shoulders were wider than he’d imagined they could go. He could climb up and down the side of the ship with ease if the desire ever, ever overtook him. One thing that he did not think he’d agree with was the insistence on naming things with completely different names that they had on land. Right and left he’d absorbed from an early age from an almost exclusive diet of sea fiction, but he was considering drawing the line at ‘aft’ where ‘end’ would do quite nicely. It was needlessly complex. Another way of excluding those who had not been to the manner born. Or at least making it impossible for them to catch up.

There was a soft knock.

Victor spun around, unsure of the entry protocol. Had Bathurst ever mentioned one? He slid the Naval Abbreviations back into its drawer and slammed it shut.

“Er, enter?” he said, hoping it sounded commanding enough.

The door opened to reveal the gently smiling face of Henry Clerval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Public' schools in the UK are fee-paying schools whose head teacher is a member of the Headmasters' and Headmistresses' Conference (HMC). 'Public' refers to their origins as schools open to any public citizen who could afford to pay the fees; they are not funded from public taxes. They're synonymous with being Old as Balls and pretty elite.
> 
> Sevenoaks is a public school in Kent. Rugby IXs (or Rugby Fourths, if we're speaking how actual people speak) are the team made up of everyone who is not in the Firsts, Seconds or Thirds. Victor is a but posh and crap at sport.


	4. Chapter 4

“Mr Clerval!”

Henry moved to come and sit with him. “Henry, please.”

While he and Henry were technically rank equals, it sat wrong with Victor somehow to call him by his first name. It must be those added years of superiority. “Of course,” he smiled.”

“Alright, are you, Mr Frankenstein?”

Victor leant back against his chair. “I am having the strangest sense of  _ deja vu _ . Since you ask. I could swear we’ve had a very similar conversation quite recently.”

Henry grinned and ducked his head. “I’m just teasing, Victor. How are you?”

“I can’t really complain.”

“That good?” Henry sat heavily in the signalman’s chair. “Well. Please don’t stop on my account. Christ, Bathurst’s left this place in a state!”

“He did warn me,” said Victor, feeling it was only fair to the departed fourth.

“Still no reason to leave you in squalor, Victor. How did you find him?”

“Lieutenant Bathurst?”

“The very same.” Henry was peering into one of the cups that had been left on the table.

“He seemed…” Victor hesitated, not wanting to speak ill of a superior officer. Not that he had conducted himself in any way conducive to being worthy of it. It had merely been Victor’s lack of professional knowledge which had made him feel so ill at ease.

His pause seemed to speak volumes to Henry.

“Give you both barrels, did he?” his companion smiled.

“How… do you mean?”

“Throw you in at the deep end?”

“It’s a standard duty watch.”

Henry’s smile grew slightly deeper, but didn’t seem to be aimed at Victor. Not at his expense, at least. “Yes, he does that. He’ll tell you twice of what you need to know in half the time it should take you to know it. It’s his way.”

“Sink or swim? No pun intended.”

“Sink or swim, indeed. Not that you feel you ought to sink. A question is just a sign that you’ve been listening. If you don’t ask anything and manage to cock up, that’s what lights the warning light. So to speak.”

“Well.” said Victor shortly. “I shan’t cock up, then.”

“And I shan’t let you.” With the dim lighting behind him, Henry looked like a medieval saint. He gave Victor a final well-wishing beam and stood up. “I should be off, Victor. I’m taking up valuable space here. Matthews will be along soon and wonder why his seat’s been nabbed. Do you know where my station is?”

Victor nodded, tightly. He turned away, feigning confidence and waited for the door to shut behind him. The compasses in front of him should be compared, he supposed.

“Victor…” He heard a sigh. Then a hand landed on his shoulder. “Relax. You’re not in charge. You don’t have the ship. Anything you need clarifying, you run by me. Alright? You’re my 2IC.”

2IC. Second in command.

He tried to force a smile, for Henry. “I’m alright.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezed.

“I’ve had watches where we’ve been two hundred and fifty admiralty miles off the nearest head of land and haven’t seen a single ship. I’ve had others where I’ve spent four hours trying to stop us running aground. Once I tried to dodge the Solent fishing fleet for ninety minutes. They’re all different. You don’t forget your first.”

“Which one of those was your first?”

“Oh, none of them,” said Henry lightly. “First watch I just stared at the wall and moped. Get your watch out.”

Victor pushed back his sleeve. Henry compared their two watches, making a note of the time. His was quietly expensive, a dark leather strap with metal work which could be either silver or very pale gold. “Good. All matched up. And sub-lieutenant?”

“Yes?”

“When someone else enters your watch station, it’s customary to say ‘nothing to report’”.

“Oh!” Inform anyone who comes in the status of the watch station. He knew that. He knew, and it had still slipped his mind entirely. “Of course! Henry, I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t apologise, I daresay you’ll remember,” he said with a wink, and with that, he was gone.

Victor blinked at the space he used to be. It would be nice to have a friend, he supposed.

Not that he had that much experience with them. With friends. Or with other naval officers. Both of which Henry was, or Victor hoped that he would become. Henry certainly seemed willing. Or at least to put across the impression that he was. While Victor had had no real (he supposed) negative experience with a fellow seaman on board, Henry had been by far the most accommodating. Much more suitable to high command than for what he was currently being used. He put Victor in mind of a Boy’s Own protagonist, all bright hair and beaming smile, ready to take on the dastardly. Some swashbuckling, Prisoner of Zenda-like existence. Victor, who had barely had the wherewithal to venture out of Kent, was his foil. He supposed Henry was saddled with him enough. It wasn’t fair to push his company too far, especially not while they were on the same watch and shared a berth.

He was chewing his cheek and considering his further options, not wanting to look either keen or standoffish, when another man entered and startled him.

In his panic, “nothing to report,” were the first words out of his mouth. At least that was his legal duty fulfilled.

The signalman raised his eyebrows in greeting around the piece of bread in his mouth. He took it out with a free hand and balanced it on one of the empty cups.

“Sorry about that, sir, Trying to catch some late scran.”

Victor blinked. “Manage, did you?”

“Course, I also hung around the galley hoping the Yeo would tell me how tired I look. Nothing to report, you say sir?”

“Er. That’s right. Yes.”

“Goodo. Should be a quiet one then.” He installed himself on the chair that Henry had vacated and slung some headphones around his neck. “If you need me, tap. Danvers, by the way.”

“Pleasure,” said Victor, unsure if he could be heard. The man picked his bread back up.

Victor looked at his watch. An hour and forty-seven minutes.

 

*

 

Two hours and two thirds of an ink pellet later, someone tapped Victor on the shoulder. He started and managed to collide with Danvers, who almost managed to disconnect his headphones from the radio box and disorder an upsetting looking sheet of transcriptions. James Hether was there.

“Evening?” said Victor, putting the lid on his pen and wondering why someone had been sent down to see him. “Nothing to report here, Hether.”

“Oh, good. I should have a relatively quiet time of it.”

“So you should, barring anything catastrophic happening in the next few minutes.”

Hether looked at his watch. “I’m on now, Victor. I’m here to relieve you.”

“Oh?” Victor looked down at his collection of logs and various, pedantically measured equipment timings. “I, er, suppose you’ll be wanting to have a look at these then. I’ve not done a lot.”

Hether looked down at Victor’s pages of confused and coded ramblings.

Victor bit the inside of his cheek. Between comparing the compasses, keeping an eye on the draft depth and reading back over the log notes from the past weeks, he’d fallen love with the maths of it. The ship was outfitted with two compasses, new model Sperrys. He had made sure to contrast them at regular intervals to have a precise estimate window within which compass errors can affect the course to be steered and made good. He stood, allowing Hether to have his seat and talked him sheepishly through his working in case the gyro failed. The incoming Officer on Watch must be aware of the extent to which the the error of the magnetic might affect the course being followed or to be followed. Certainly according to the regulations. And if he had had some fun during the workings? So what of it?

Hether looked up at him. “You know, anyone would think you were enjoying this, Frankenstein.”

Victor shrugged. “Got to be done.”

“So it has, you masochistic bastard. Go on, get lost. If you see a flaggy called Preston, send him over, would you? Danvers can’t go until he gets here.”

“No, Danvers can’t,” the signalman said bitterly, noting down something which could be semaphore, morse or nonsense.

Victor smiled to himself, nodded and left. First watch. His first watch. It hadn’t gone too badly, he thought. Hopefully those compass workings could be of some use, as well.

He almost walked directly into Henry.

“Victor!” Henry caught Victor, holding both of his upper arms to avoid collision. “There you are. James and I were wondering how long he could stand there until you’d notice.”

“Oh?”

“More than five minutes, I hope. I might be owed money.”

“I’m not sure, Henry, he came and got me in the end.”

Henry seemed pleased. “Good enough. I should be able to swing that. Come with me, I’m on my way to the galley. How did your first watch go?”

Victor relayed it to him as they made their way back down to the gunroom. The watch stations were above what he had come to think of as ‘their’ deck; towards the back of the ship (‘aft’, he thought bitterly), and still decidedly belowdecks.

The ship panted gently in the Solent water. He fancied - hoped - he was beginning to notice it less.

 

*

 

“So you spent all that time sat doing pure navigational maths? Victor, you’re a hero.”

They were sat back down in the gunroom, just the two of them. Hether and Simpson were their opposite numbers - ‘oppos’, he’d picked up they were meant to be called - on the next watch. Clayton was asleep. Henry had sat down and gone through the whole process with him; port had the night watch one night, starboard the next. Instead of doing a full night’s watch - last dogwatch from six until eight, and then ‘first watch’ from eight until midnight - the starboard watch had pulled a longer afternoon watch.They had all collided at dinner because, in Henry’s words ‘we’re in the middle of a glorified harbour and getting sailors to go where they’re meant is like herding wild cats’. And he still had the bell system to think about.

“Well,” said Victor. “It’s nothing. I enjoy it.”

“Enjoy it?”

“The maths. The nature of it.”

“Good God man. Master Bowles is going to talk you through astro-navigation and you’re going to put him out of a job.”

Victor dipped his mouth into his tea to hide a grin. “Mr Clerval. Pride before a fall and all that.”

“Do you know what I did on my watch, Victor? I read the First Code of Naval Laws.”

Victor knitted his brow. “That has to have some practical application, surely?”

“Someone’s drawn a penis on the cover and they date from the sodding Crusades. I should hope they don’t.”

“Any advice worth following?”

Henry held his mug in both his hands and leant back, deep in thought. “ _ ‘A murderer is to be tied to the corpse of his victim and buried alive, whether on land or at sea _ ’. I like the poetic irony of that one. It’s very John Donne.”

“Henry, that’s horrific.”

Henry smiled, and suddenly his normal self was back again. “How do we feel about tarring and feathering?”

“Better.”

“Yes. Far less Old Testament. When I’ve got my own command, I might try and bring it back.”

“Would you? I’d like to bring back cannons.”

Henry laughed. It seemed to take him by surprise. “I hope you’d let me on your ship.”

“Only if you’re properly attired.”

“Will you keelhaul me if I’m not?”

“No, Mr Clerval, I’ll have you tarred and feathered.”

Henry smiled again, and it broke over his face like the sun. Victor held his eye.

“Well acquainted with ballsacks, are you?” Henry asked at last.

Victor thought he’d misheard.

“Am I - sorry?”

“The Floating Ballistic. Those new Sperrys. Only, you spent so long messing about with them, I assumed-”

“Oh!” Victor managed to school his features. “I’m so sorry! Only, I thought you said-”

“Oh, I did,” said Henry cheerily. “They can’t set that kind of name loose in the world and not expect the Navy to take it to its logical conclusion.”

“The Floating…”

“Believe me, they’re about as much use as one when the seas get rough,” said Henry darkly, taking another draught of his tea. “As much use as a floating ballsack, I mean. You’ve got to keep the damn thing almost perfectly level to induce any kind of good behaviour in it.”

“Are we talking about the compass now.”

Henry’s smile was… more veiled than before. A show smile. “Forgive me. Naval humour. One doesn’t realise how much it can permeate until it’s too late.”

“No, don’t apologise,” said Victor, anxious to get him laughing again. Why could Victor not understand jokes when they fell over him? “Please, don’t apologise on my account. Evidently I’m not up to much this evening.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Henry quietly. It was lost in Victor attempting to bluster on.

“The Sperrys. Yes. Had much of a time of it with them?”

Henry shrugged. “Outfitted all the Jacks with them when they first came out.  _ Anschütz  _ sounded just a tad too Jerry, I’d imagine. Still, a compass is a compass.”

“A change is as good as a rest, and all that.”

“Quite.” Henry looked tired. A beat, and then “May you excuse me for a minute, Victor?”

Victor tried not to look as taken aback as he felt. “Of course.”

Henry smiled wanly. “Thank you. I shan’t be long.”

He picked himself up, sitting his mug on the counter. Victor and his chair were between Henry and the door. Victor endeavoured to make himself as flat as possible. Henry huffed out a defeated sounding laugh and put his hand on Victor’s shoulder to steady himself as he climbed over, doing his best not to disturb any of the furnishings. As he left, he have Victor’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

That feeling lingered there, just a moment longer than could be proper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sperry - a new make of compass made to rival the German Anschütz, which had been the only type in the Royal Navy until 1913.  
> Flags - signalmen  
> Victor- weird


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO in the UK the word 'fag' is a colloquialism for cigarette and there are cigarette fags present in this chapter. I thought I would give you team a collective heads-up because of the... other history that word has (thanks hets)

The vacant gunroom rumbled. Victor sat in silence, his lips pressed close together. The blood had long since left them. Ten minutes later, and Henry had still not returned. Not that Victor had expected him to. He and his infernal inability to detect sarcasm when it sought him out and fell over him in public. Henry. He was so nice. Victor couldn’t imagine being saddled with himself, every hour of the day. It was bad enough he had to live through it first hand. Nannying him must be far worse. No wonder Henry had needed a few minutes to himself.

The door knocked. A head poked around the door. Another he hadn’t seen before. A steward.

“Sub Lieutenant Frankenstein?”

“Can I help?” Victor blinked good-naturedly.

“Old man’s office, sir. He’s expecting.”

“Captain Keene?” Victor’s heart skipped a beat. All that pratting about with the navigational equipment. Of course he’d overstepped his boundaries.

He swallowed dryly and nodded. “Alright. Lead on.”

Once again up that sodding ladder.

The steward kept ahead of him the whole time. Under the guise of not wanting to be too quick and undermine his authority, Frankenstein hung back and tried to stop his stomach and throat from spasming. His hands would be filthy as well. He wondered when he’d be able to excuse himself to the head to get himself back together. His housewife and a Gordon Pym were among the only things that he’d unpacked so far. Although perhaps he’d been wise not to unpack completely after all. Three times with the Captain after four hours at sea was sure to be a record.

Again, he was outside the wardroom door. He wondered if Keene ever left the place.

The steward entered without knocking. That would make him the Captain’s steward. Another role learnt on his stint as the Navy’s shortest serving officer.

Keene was there. To his surprise, so was Henry.

He was probably here to give evidence for the prosecution, Victor realised with a smart. He had liked Henry.

Henry tried to meet his eye, but Victor avoided it.

In doing so, he caught sight of the signalman from his watch, sat with another man in signals gear. With Henry, they would make the entire port watch team. Christ. He must have really cocked it.

“Ah, Victor,” said Keene, peering over to where Frankenstein stood. The steward ducked out quietly. “Good. We’re all here then.”

Victor bit the inside of his cheek and willed Keene to get on with it.

“You have all heard of our episode of unpleasantness on deck this afternoon. Victor more so than any of you.”

Victor felt eyes slide to him gently. He winced inwardly. Either Keene was giving him an out, or he was detailing his afternoon for all to hear before he chucked him.

Someone must have realised that Keene wasn’t going to move on without a verbal signal. A rough murmur went around the wardroom.

“Nobody feels his loss more keenly than his fellow officers. I have written to Mr Lowe’s family with confirmation of his death. However, due to the untimely and, frankly, bizarre manner in which it happened, I regret that I have had to take action which I would usually regard as overtly militant. I can assure you it was not taken with a light heart, but I hope you’ll understand there is no other course of action open to me.”

Victor heaved a sigh. Here it came. He felt almost calm.

“Lieutenant Lowe’s body was handled in a way which violates the advised course of action under the circumstances. I have suspended the officer responsible. He is on escort back to shore, pending review.”

Another ripple of conversation and movement, this time more lively. Who, and why, and what had they done? Victor was so busy thinking in dazzled bewilderment that he wasn’t about to be hauled off on shore leave for bending the rules of recreational maths that he almost missed the sinister undertone that those words held. The corpse. The officer responsible.

Henry was white.

Keene allowed them a moment for this news to sink in, for the shock to be vocalised. He then carried on; “The only course left to me now is to appoint his replacement.”

The air tensed.

His replacement. That would be a sub lieutenant.

“I am sure that you are all aware of some tensions which have manifested in the past few weeks. It is in nobody’s interest to exacerbate these. In the interest of remaining partisan, I have appointed a new lieutenant from off ship. Mr Matthews will collect him in the morning and escort him on ship. I am most assured of his credentials and I am confident he will be a valuable asset to the  _ Justinian _ .”

Henry cleared his throat into the ensuing silence. “Is there anything you can tell us about him, sir?”

“Nothing that I’m sure you won’t be able to ask him in due course, Sub Lieutenant Clerval. Good man with an impeccable service record. Saw Dogger Bank and Heligoland. He’ll do us good.”

“I’m glad to hear it, sir.”

“And I am glad to have found him, Mr Clerval. You four are the last to know. I couldn’t have your watch disturbed. Danvers?”

Danvers looked up from where his gaze had drifted to the corner of the captain’s desk.

“Yes, sir?”

“You subbed in for Matthews’ watch this evening, I am given to understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will continue to stand in for the foreseeable.”

“Of course, sir.”

Keene nodded, happy. “Dismissed.”

They stepped outside just as the bell was ringing. Henry stood and listened. “Five of them. Half an hour before anyone needs to shake a leg anywhere. Flaggies? Cuppa?”

“You inviting us into the sacred space, sir?”

“I daresay we don’t mind, do we Victor?” Henry asked, smiling. Victor forced himself to act in a manner he deemed casual and aloof, far unwilling to let Henry’s recent behaviour towards him colour a chance to bond with fellow seamen.

“I daresay we won’t, Mr Clerval.”

 

*

 

Victor’s cup of tea was exactly where he had left it. Self-consciously, he collected his and Henry’s and busied himself washing them at the sink. Four others lay drying in the rack.

“Danny Flags! Welcome to port watch.”

“Pleasure to be here, Mr MacKenzie. Long have I waited to be demobbed of a bastard.”

“Reckon he’s going to like being passed over for a promotion, do you?” Henry’s signalman leant back on his chair and lit a cigarette. “Keene, you magnificent bugger. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“That incoming fifth is going to have a hell of a job of it.”

Victor waited patiently for the tea urn to finish filling its third cup. The dribble was getting decidedly less powerful.

“What do you reckon? Disgraced bridge officer or jumped up little shit with a flimsy?”

“Gentlemen,” said Henry mildly.

“Right you are sir,” MacKenzie deferred. “Present company accepted.”

“That’s alright, MacKenzie. It isn’t my fault that not everyone can pass their Lieutenant’s Exam.”

Victor took advantage of the ensuing chortle to sit down and make the tea known. They seemed so at ease with each other and their good-natured ribbing. Both the signals were master’s mates. They’d have been midshipmen, once upon a time. Perhaps Henry knew them of old. He had barely any reason to lead the ship over them.

“Cheers,” said Danvers, leaning in. “To my illustrious future.”

Victor clinked his mug to theirs and joined in the chorus. He had been left with the scrag end of the tea, all gritty leaves and undissolved sugar. He took a bitter swallow and decided it was far too stewed for even he to bother with.

“Poor Chadd,” said Henry after a while. “I wonder what’ll happen to him.”

“I wonder what he did with that corpse,” said Danvers. “Fuck me. Never heard that one before.”

“I’ve been mulling over that one as well.” MacKenzie took a pensive draught of tea. “Rather adds something to rum, bum and ‘bacca, doesn’t it?”

Victor could see where this was going to end up. He stepped in, hoping to delay the inevitable. “He touched him. Lowe, I mean.”

“Chadd did?”

Victor nodded. “Bare handed.”

“Last I heard he was in medical isolation,” said Henry. “I suppose they’ve had to quarantine him.”

Mackenzie blew out a plume of smoke. “Well. Bugger.”

Danvers was rather less forgiving. “Teach him to go around prodding dead subbies then, won’t it? What a pillock.”

“I take it he shan’t be missed,” said Victor, standing on the fringes of the conversation as usual.

Danvers shrugged. “Bit of a leg iron. All talk and no trousers type. Got a fag, Tom?”

MacKenzie fished his tin out of his jacket pocket and offered it over. Danvers took two, tried to give one to Victor, who refused more out of surprise than anything else. Danvers shrugged, put it back, tapped his cigarette on the tin. “Hardly the Devil incarnate but not a bloke I’d trust to have my back. Kind of man who’d rather go to Hell than admit he was wrong.”

“And why shouldn’t he?” said MacKenzie darkly. “It’s only a short walk from this bloody place.”

Henry nursed his tea in silence, staring a particular spot on the table, for all intents and purposes very deep in thought. Victor wondered whether he should bring in into the conversation, but decided to leave him be. He hadn’t forgotten his earlier lapse in social decorum.

The bell tolled, three sets of two. Eleven o’clock

“S’pose I better do something to earn my keep around here, gentlemen,” said Danvers, swinging his legs back to a proper position. Shower, shit, shave for me.” He took one last deep drag of his cigarette and tossed his butt into his mug. It hissed.

“Tea’s good for something, then. Coming, Tom?”

“Coming. Cheers for the tea and sympathy, sir.” He nodded at Victor. “Sirs.”

“You’re welcome,” Henry winked. The door shut. He watched it for a heartbeat. He turned to Frankenstein.

“Victor.”

He didn’t say anything further. Then he wet his lips and tried again, meeting Victor’s eye. “I wish to apologise. For earlier.”

Victor cleared his throat to give himself some time to think. How to articulate to Henry that the fault was with him? Without looking like he was trying to curry favour or like he had no understanding of how his behaviour affected others; of its ramifications on deck. He couldn’t think of a way to say any of this. Instead, he opted for a safe, non partisan, non deferential statement. “You have nothing to apologise for, Henry.”

Henry made a sound that was in equal parts indignant and slightly startled. “I can assure you that I do. For leaving you in the lurch like that. I had every intention of returning.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Don’t you?” said Henry, abstractly. Then he cleared up. “Anyway. I wanted to extend my apologies to you, Victor. I should not have left you without an explanation. It’s been a - tough couple of weeks.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Hmm. Anyway.”

“Anyway.”

Henry looked at him and smiled. “Friends again? I would like you assure you that I am usually far better company than I am at the moment.”

“No fear, Mr Clerval. I am never good company at all.”

Henry smiled. “Good. I wouldn’t want to keep someone around who’s funnier than I am.” He checked his watch. “We’re on forenoon tomorrow. Then I’m due on bridge to muck in with some clerking. I daresay they’ll be An Amount of paperwork to go through the motions of putting Chadd in hospital or prison or wherever he’s going to end up. This new lieutenant coming aboard isn’t going to help matters. While I am doing that, you, my friend, are to report to astro-nav. Bowles is going to adore you.”

“I look forward to meeting him.”

“Looks like a tree that a bear clawed,” Henry said thoughtfully. “First bell, on the poop deck. I shall be in the ship’s office having a terrible time.”

“Try and be positive, Mr Clerval. At least you’ll be inside.”

“That is true,” Henry sighed. “If a howling gale starts up, I promise to think of you.”

“If a howling gale starts up, will you let me in?”

“No. It’ll be good for you. You and Bowles can huddle for warmth.”

“I do hope that you spill something on your paperwork and have to start all over again.”

Henry smiled brightly. “So do I. XO might tell me I’m useless and send me to bed. I’ll bid you farewell, Victor. I haven’t shaved in three days and I live in fear of the old man running a gas drill.” Henry ran both hands down his remarkably stubble-free face. He couldn’t be far off Victor’s age. Perhaps it didn’t show because he was that much fairer? Henry ran a hand through his marmalade coloured hair, then held it out to shake Victor’s. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, Victor. Sleep well.”

“You too, Henry. I’ll try not to make too much noise when I come in.”

“I have been assured I am notoriously difficult to wake,” said Henry with a grin. And then he was off. Victor gathered all of the mugs in one place and rinsed them, fishing out a disintegrating cigarette butt as he did so. He wasn’t sure why the fad hadn’t grasped him. Perhaps he had simply left it too long. That, and the standing around that it entailed. In a knot of people who all seem to gather together as if they had a shared interest. It would be a nightmare for him. They made the gunroom smell like a pub.

MacKenzie hadn’t offered Henry one, Victor noticed. Perhaps the sub lieutenant shared his unease at its unwanted social baggage. But then Henry, in the limited time that Victor had known him, seemed so far the opposite. Ready with a laugh. Friendly with the subordinates. Obviously close to his brother officers. Well liked. Respected. The sort of man that Victor hoped to be, or hoped to become when he’d signed up.

He’d seen the War as a horrible sort of opportunity. There wasn’t any way, he knew, any conventional Navy would lower its standards so far as to let him in in peacetime. He was too gangly. As a teenager, he’d put himself in mind of an elongated, flightless gosling. He fancied that not a lot had changed, except that now he was shaving. The army was too far out of the question to even be considered. The Flying Corps further beyond that, even though they seemed so universally hated. The Navy had seemed viable.

The Navy was viable, damn it. What else would he do? Rot in Kent? Follow his father into practice? Go into law? His once-preferred route of professorship was beyond his father’s salary, however admittedly generous. The Navy provided some scope for that, a framework. Some grounding in maths and navigation. Perhaps even engineering. He was a naval officer now. He was going to spent tomorrow afternoon discussing how to navigate without a compass. There was a book of star charts he ought to consult. Not that they would be a huge amount of use in the middle of the day. And, he fancied, he may even have made a friend. He had certainly spent time in the company of people who did not violently hate him. Perhaps he could be tolerated. The new lieutenant coming aboard would put him out of his place as the newest member of the crew, even if the newest lieutenant seemed to have a reputation as a battle hardened naval veteran. There was one more person to bounce between to try and dilute his neediness.

He stood up, found his way back to his berth. Two figures were lying in the half-darkness, utterly oblivious to whatever was happening around them. One was above him, Styles. The sub lieutenants’ steward. The second figure must be Clayton, dead to the world. He pulled his housewife off his bed and made his way up to the head for a shave.

As he lathered up, he considered the other sub lieutenants. One in particular. He tried to cast his mind back to the conversation in the gunroom with the signalmen, the one which took place almost exclusively as he was making tea. Someone who was expecting to be promoted had been passed over. Everyone seemed to view it as a bit of a snub, albeit a well deserved one. He and Henry were out of the picture. Could it have been Clayton? Would Henry and the signals have been confident enough in his sleep habits to feel they could talk about him, in public, completely without inhibition? Perhaps, but also perhaps not. He recalled how Henry and Clayton had spoken with each other. Had embraced when he first came on board. It seemed highly unlikely that Henry could have two such totally separate facets of a personality. How could he keep them apart from each other for so long? Although, he hadn’t contributed very much to that particular conversation. Planning to relay it later, maybe?

But then there was the way he had teased MacKenzie. So playful, without a single note of malice. So confident in how it would be received. A relationship like that couldn’t be based on falsehood, could it?

That left two. Hether and Simpson. Victor seemed reasonably confident in which one was most deserving of doubt.

There had been something else, as well. A decisional catalyst. Tensions, he seemed to recall Keene saying. He coupled this with Henry, with his tough couple of weeks.

Of course, the ship had also been at anchor for a week at least. They’d lost one man and just that night lost another. They’d lost a sub lieutenant, a berthmate. Victor recalled how troubled Henry had seen by the discussion of Lowe’s… body over their dinner. He was reading far too far into things, he decided. People weren’t thought experiments. Mostly for the reason that they kept changing their minds and being generally unmanageable. More’s the pity.

He dried his face, acted on a function of nature. The ship was lit more dimly for the night time hours although it was still unmistakably a living, breathing vessel. He could feel it throb under his feet with the water. He could hear the electricity crackle, the men moving behind him and on top of him. Footsteps, a sudden explosion of laughter. A clink of glass or chains. He compared it back to Kent, to Tunbridge Wells or Bromley. The utter silence of the country night, or the slight fizzing of the streetlamps in a genteel suburb. Nobody out on the streets after nightfall. The occasional rattle of a cab or purr of an engine, the far off soporific thrum of a train. Compared to that, this was deafening. Bright. Everything he could hear or see was amplified by the superstructure of the ship. He thought of him, this time last night. In his borrowed bed in a seashore hotel, too tied in knots to sleep. Then he had slept, so soundly he barely had time to throw everything in his sea chest. The women in the VAD uniforms, who were probably full naval officers by now. His desperate, undignified scramble onto the deck. His first time seeing a half jack, seeing a ship up close. He was surprised, still, by how dull and functional they were.

He opened the berth door quietly and sat on the end of his bed, unlacing his boots and removing his heavy tunic and tie, hanging them on the dress hook at the end of the bed. He took off his shirt, lay down in his undergarments and felt rather cold.

He thought one last time of the noise of the ship, and realised that he preferred it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol sorry chadd
> 
> SO in my limited understanding of early 20th century watchstanding, there are two teams (port and starboard) who tag team a watch every four hours. These teams are split into sub teams (first and second). Starboard 1st do one, pass to Port 1st; pass to Starboard 2nd; pass to Port 2nd; pass to Starboard 1st etc. If that isn't how it works, that is how it works on this particular strain of fictional ship. Any ghosts reading please hmu and review my terminology
> 
> XO - Executive Officer (usually First Lieutenant)


	6. Chapter 6

He was woken in the night by what sounded like a bag of post being dropped. In his half asleep state, he attempted to get out of bed to investigate, found that he was trapped and thought he’d been buried alive. A few more moments of panicked wakefulness revealed that he had, in fact, tried to get out of bed the wrong way and collided with the bulkhead. After almost pulling his curtain from its runner to escape the oncoming sense of doom, the post bag morphosed itself into Styles getting up to tend to the middle watch. He lay there and listened to the sleepy tenor of voices, getting steadily louder as they warmed into wakefulness. He considered making some sort of noise to indicate that he was awake and would be appreciative of some peace and quiet. It seemed like an end which may make him unpopular. Worst case, it would open him up as a confirmed bastard and a viable target. He opted to lie there in silence instead. The steady panting motion of the ship was beginning to push itself to the back of his mind. It was much like being on a train, Victor thought. Once on the train, you don’t dedicate every waking minute to thinking about how fast the train is or where it goes. You are simply on a train. It was exactly the same principle. Yet on a ship.

He must have fallen asleep, because next he was aware his curtain was open and what passed for light was streaming in. Henry was standing in front of the single mirror, tying his tie. Styles was sat on the floor, propped up against Victor’s bedpost working off his boots. He looked up as Victor came to.

“Awake, are you sir?”

“Yes, thank you Styles.” He swung his legs over the side of his bed and was at once grateful for his decision to keep his socks on. The deck was rough and bruisingly cold, textured with some sort of grit to make it less of a hazard. It would take the skin off his bare feet. He sat there for a moment, trying to get his head together.

He checked his watch. He hadn’t taken it off before he went to sleep. He had tried to school himself in the habit of sleeping with it on after he had passed out of Dartmouth, anxious that he shouldn’t be caught unawares if he was suddenly startled awake in the night. It was finally beginning to feel more natural to have it on, although he fancied he may soon need a new strap. 07:32.

“Sleep well did you, Victor?” asked Henry, folding his collar down over his tie and pulling on his tunic.

“Yes, thank you Henry. “Victor stretched, cracking out his back. “Yourself?”

“Passably.”

“I’ve just finished laying out breakfast in the gunroom, sir,” said Styles, who was still on the floor. He had both of his legs stretched out in front of him and his eyes closed. “I hope you don’t mind me opening your curtain. I put so much effort into getting the bloody thing ready I didn’t want you to oversleep and miss it.”

Victor blinked. He supposed “Thank you, Styles,” was the proper response. He gave it. Somehow, he had assumed it was Henry who had tried to get him ready for the day. It was summative of the gentle forethought that he had come to associate with his new friend. It almost felt like a… loss.

“Don’t wait for me, Henry,” he said, standing up at last. “I’ll see you in there.”

“Are you sure?”

Victor tried to smile. He hoped that it looked right, first thing in the morning. “Of course.”

Mornings had never been Victor’s forte. Even as a child; where most were prone to getting up with the birds, he had remained dead to the world until he was manually awakened for some task or other from the age of six. Those days, his duties had consisted of ‘being in clothes’ and ‘being on time’. These days they were rather more unseemly. He wondered what he had found so repellent about them then.

He mediated this as he changed his socks. He was still to be in uniform and to be at a certain place at a certain time. This time, there was even a vague air of productiveness. A dining hall. Inevitably starch-heavy institutional food. The company of the same men every day, day in and day out. The worries that somebody would discover the truth about himself and reveal him for the fool and the imposter that he was. The Navy was very similar to school.

Perhaps more than is healthy, he thought bitterly. The two experiences could end up being far more similar than he would like them to.

He recalled his previous, uncharacteristic bout of positivity last night. He may just have to make the effort to have episodes like that more often.

He took care in putting on the rest of his uniform. His shirt and tunic had weathered the night well. His trousers had a crease in them, but he supposed that would have to be borne. Styles was still completely perpendicular.

“Anything I can do for you, Mr Styles?” he asked. Still unable to quash the urge of manners, even when they did go against decorum.

“No, thank you Mr Frankenstein,” replied Styles, sounding bored. Perhaps he expected it of Victor.

Victor brushed some stray hairs off his sleeve and checked the mirror. The wool of the tunic really did make every little thing cling. Its dark colouring didn’t help discretion.

His hair itself was passable. Perhaps slightly too long for regulation length. He would just have to side with Henry and hope that it didn’t break the seal of his mask when they had a gas drill. Even as a prolific and notorious worrier, even he would count against the likelihood of a gas attack next to the Isle of Wight.

The gunroom was almost full to capacity, of men in various stages of their day. Hether had just come off duty, propping himself up on his left arm and looking for all the world like he had fallen asleep. There were two cups of coffee beside him.

‘Breakfast’ was laid out on the sideboard, consisting of coffee and some pieces of toast. On a hotplate sat some eggs, their yolks yellow and powdery. An array of sauces and preserves lined up next to it. The tea urn was bubbling faithfully away. Styles must have refilled it in the night. Victor, for whom food had never been a primary concern, decanted some coffee into a mug and nabbed a slice of toast. A tin of jam and an earthenware pot of marmite, both sticky with residue from their respective spreads. He decided he couldn’t face anything too sweet first thing in the morning.

To his surprise and joy, milk and sugar were not a compulsory part of the brewing of coffee. He started spreading marmite on his toast.

“Are you having that without butter?” asked Henry, who was eating a scrambled egg between two slices of bread. Hether opened his eyes sleepily. “I knew you’d be the type,” he said accusingly.

“Have done with everything,” he said, not willing to go into why his schooling had managed to put him off it so comprehensively.

Henry nodded, seemingly satisfied. It was particularly daring to eat an egg in wool, thought Victor. Even with a sponge clean, it was unlikely to come off completely. He had run afoul of a notorious egg banjo once and had no interest in repeating it. He wasn’t enough of a fan of eggs for it to be worth the risk-reward ratio. Although it could very well be the only hot item he’d be served for quite some time. He drank his coffee instead.

Henry finished his banjo while Victor drank his second cup of coffee, and was well on the way to making another to take to his watch station with him. To his dismay, Henry had tried to converse over breakfast, an action of which Victor was barely capable before one o’clock. It was struggle enough to get himself to fulfill all the functions that he had to. He couldn’t afford to take social cues into the fragile equation.

Henry seemed to understand. He and Victor left for their watch together, both with coffees. Victor was beginning to understand how a watch station could become so cluttered. He’d have to leave it in some semblance of order.

He bid farewell to Henry and entered his station to find Bathurst and his signalman already deep in conversation about a gash. An alarm pinged inside him.

“Ah, Mr Frankenstein!” said Bathurst, turning himself towards the door. “Just the man. I hear you’ve managed to ingratiate yourself with the top brass.”

“Have I, sir?” Victor asked.

Bathurst stood up and stretched himself up like a cat, the palms of his two hands pressing up on the deckhead. “Talk of the lieutenants’ meeting. We usually just decide how’s best to fuck with the ratings for the day, but we ended up having an actual topic of conversation all thanks to you and your bloody maths.”

“Oh?” he remembered himself. “Sir?”

“Something about how wishing all OOWs could be like you when they were installed somewhere. Showed all of us useless bastards up, you did.”

Victor reddened.

“Don’t do it again,” said Bathurst, handing Victor the logbook. “Not a lot in there that will come as a great surprise.

Then he paused. “Except.”

Bathurst took the log away and flicked it back a page, coming to rest on a note made the previous night, after Victor had come off watch.

“Look here. Entry made about new officer coming aboard. Fifth Lieutenant replacing Chadd. Well, Chadd’s been officially removed. If the officer comes aboard while you’re on watch, it’s crucial you make a note of it Frankenstein, you hear? Man’s had a bit of a show of it, from what I’ve heard.”

Victor nodded. “Yes sir. Two of the big shows, I hear.”

There was the briefest lapse, during which Victor was sure he could feel Bathurst’s eyes sliding to look at him. “Yes,” he said, just too soon for it to have become worthy of note. “Quite the shows.”

Victor bit the inside of his cheek and nodded sagely. He had come off like a fool, he knew.

“Anyway,” Bathurst snapped the book shut with faux cheeriness. “All yours now Frankenstein. Not a lot happens early morning, unless it’s already happened by now. Much in the galley?”

Victor fumbled, unsure of where the junior and senior officers’ galley differed. “Eggs and bread in the gunroom this morning, sir.”

“Oh, wonderful,” said Bathurst, with a mute twist of the lips. “I suppose I’ll last. Oh, hello Danvers.”

Danvers dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Morning, sir. Lieutenant Frankenstein. Gerry.”

“Mornin’,” replied Bathurst’s signaller, looking on the verge of collapse.

“Now a good time is it, sir?” asked Danvers, evidently more attuned to the intricacies of picking up watches than Victor. Victor made up for it by looking at Bathurst with what he hoped a degree of authority.  Whether intuitively or through protocol, he obliged.

“Sure enough, signalman. Be alright, Frankenstein?”

Victor tightened his jaw. “Yes sir.”

Bathurst sent him a wink. “Good. See you on the other side.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Victor. He and his signalman - Preston? - left. Victor sat at the console. Danvers seemed to be doing very little.

Victor thought he might have to say something before Danvers said, “That new fifth lieutenant is expected any moment now, sir. You think he’ll report down here?”

Victor twisted his mouth, not knowing if this was an attempt at conversation or a warning of what was to come. “I don’t know, Danvers. I can’t imagine why he would.”

“Might want to make himself known, sir,” said Danvers without missing a beat. “Might want to show you who he is.”

“Yes,” said Victor, trying his best to be without a hint of irony. “Maybe he will.”

*

He did.

And Victor had not been expecting him. Neither him himself as a concept, or him as a whole. Fifth Lieutenant Walton was more or less Victor’s age exactly, or so it seemed from his appearance. He was dark haired and smiling. He appeared in the watch room almost without fanfare, simply the Captain’s steward knocking on the door and opening it. The new lieutenant beamed as he saw what he saw, and Victor couldn’t think why. Danvers seemed not to notice.

Victor nodded his head and doffed his cap. The new lieutenant did the same to Victor.

He noted it down in the logs nonetheless. Not the doff, but the appearance. The man. The lieutenant. He seemed so eager it would have been a shame not to.

That friendly face. Could be that he was a war-hardened veteran? That he had seen Dogger Bank and Heligoland?

Everyone had seen Dogger Bank. Everyone on this _ship_ must have seen Dogger Bank. For all the victory and/or the defeat it entailed.

Dogger Bank itself had been a strange affair. It wasn’t the first time a battle was held over the hazardous sandbank between Hertfordshire and Denmark. 1696 and, if Victor wasn’t mistaken, 1781 too. So his naval studies had told him. Small battles in smaller, siller wars. All skirmishes over kings of kingships and principalities. All the families marrying each other. The Dogger Bank incident, ten years or so ago, of course. The Russians mistaking the fishing craft for Japanese torpedo boats in that brief, spectacular war they’d had. _We had almost gone to war over that,_ Victor thought. How strange time was.

A big sandbank, though. They had thought it was more or less Pleistocene. The last glacial period had put paid to that, and the area of New Dogger was making itself known in reply.

Not that they were close to New Dogger, and not that it had proven itself to be anything other than a huge red herring when planning for combat manoeuvers. New Dogger was not inherently dangerous. It had simply been tarred with the same brush as many other ‘new’ things from the period.

 _Besides_ , thought Victor. _We had always known about the Dogger Bank. It isn’t as if it sprung itself on us._

No, he thought to himself in reply. It isn’t.

The battle itself had been a relatively nondescript affair.

Heligoland had been a walkover by comparison. After the bombings in Scarborough, Hartlepool and Whitby they hadn’t had to try and make the men want to fight. Room 40 had come through. Not that, having seen the tail end of it at Dartmouth, the battle itself seemed to be that decisive. It had boosted morale, Victor remembered. Against the Germans. Naval battles were usually short. It was the long, prolonged areas of heavy gunfire you needed to beware. The vibrations which upset them. Although those vibrations travelled so much faster at sea.

Victor had done the workings out over and over many times ago. The casualty rates and why they were. The Army was so much more than the Navy, and why that was. But when a ship went down, it went down. It was better than being in an airship or an aeroplane; but what was worse, really? Dying on impact or drowning in salt water?

Victor had done his research. He knew salt water was the worst way to drown.

They (as he and everyone else referred to them) did not tend to make themselves known at sea. At any rate, there were protocols for if they did. The new E Classes, for one.

Salt water was, after all, the worst way to drown.

He - wondered. But then he knew he wondered. Wondering [ _sic_ ] lonely as a cloud, he thought with a sense of humour that he hated. Everyone wondered the same. Who had seen. Who had heard. Who had smelt. They knew all the others; who touched, who tasted. They knew what came after. But the thought of what came before…

Victor couldn’t think.

“Alright, sir?” asked Danvers.

Victor started; checked his watch and realised it was over an hour into his watch time and he hadn’t made a note.

“Yes, thank you Danvers,” he said, eager to keep up decorum. And then, “Yourself?”

“Aye,” said Danvers warily. “Not bad.”

Victor bit is tongue and focused on his log. What could he write. He had seen the new fifth and made an ostentatious note of it. What else? The compasses? Half a degree off from where they were in the logs. He updated the reading. Then he remembered maths, and wondered if he should do some. The readings had changed since the new officer came on, he realised. And then he remembered correlation versus causation, and how the docking of a pilot boat would make them list. The angle was a natural occurrence.

That, and how far could the Sperrys be trusted anyway?

He thought on that until his shift had ended, by which point he was too bewildered to make sense of  how much time he’d passed and also how quickly time had passed while he was wishing it away.

His first four hour watch. Four hours.

His notes… seemed satisfactory. They covered at least three pages, taking into account his wide margins and underestimation of the lateral width of an A5 page. Cambridge had been tough on him.

Half a page an hour seemed worthy, especially considering the complication of mathematical formulae. The letters. They complained about the letters so often, he remembered, at school. Still. They didn’t have to now. Half of them were dead.

He supposed he should meet Walton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> robert.... the Boy....


	7. Chapter 7

He handed over the watch, ceding what little he had written under the guise of quality over quantity. His relieving officer didn’t seem to care. The eight bells sounded midday. He had an hour and a half until he needed to report up for astro-navigation. He worked out the bells in his head; they restarted at eight and they sounded at half hour intervals. Half past one was three of them. He wondered if it would be worth tracking down a book on star charts, even in the daylight. He wasn’t sure where he would be able to find information on cloud formations at such short notice. There were books on the subject, surely. There must be some on board. Maybe he could borrow one. If he hadn’t left in such a hurry, he may have been able to track down one of his own, or at least found one at Dartmouth. Dartmouth library must be stacked with them.

He knew the rudimentary. He knew how to determine the latitude and plot a basic course. A lot of what he knew how to do had been automated before the war. He knew how to do them because when he was a child he had read _Treasure Island_ and wanted to run away to sea. They were still taught, in case there were ever any mechanical difficulties.

The phrase ‘mechanical difficulties’ was used with nebulous ambiguity.

Out of boredom or habitual self-navigation, Victor found himself back along the gunroom corridor, and propped against the doorframe was a smart figure in a full lieutenant’s uniform. He heard Victor coming and turned and smiled.

In the omnipotent gloaming of the sub-waterline corridors, Fifth Lieutenant Walton looked much the same as any lieutenant Victor had met. He was of medium size, medium build and had hair that could be classified on the medium side of dark. He had a wide and easy smile, and he directed it exactly at Victor.

“Good afternoon, Sub-Lieutenant,” he said. “I believe we’ve met?”

Victor smiled. “Briefly.”

Fifth Lieutenant Robert Walton had just passed his lieutenant’s exam. Victor knew this because Lieutenant Walton told him almost as soon as they’d met. The first thing he’d done had been to take Victor’s hand eagerly and tell him that all gunrooms looked the same. “Have you noticed?” he asked.

“This is Victor’s first service,” said Henry probably thinking that he was doing Victor a favour by sparing him the answer. Victor didn’t like that he was right.

Walton’s eyes seemed to light up, but it was hard to tell if this was from delight at a new topic of conversation or at the opportunity to cover up his perceived social faux-pas.

“Straight from Dartmouth?” he asked, with his eyebrows as much as his voice. “They must have wanted you! What an ideal ship to begin on! I always did like the half-jacks. They get so much bad press, don’t you think? Far more than they deserve. They’re like a sibling. You can hate them all you like and so can your other sibs, but as soon as anyone else tries to join in they get a sock in the jaw. My last service was a full _Borodino_ , and do you know what? I didn’t like it half as much. Bigger, of course, but with half the soul. I’m sorry," he said, "am I speaking too much?”

 _You couldn’t have not known that_ , Victor thought as Henry smiled and pushed a chair out with his foot. “There’s no need to feel self-conscious, lieutenant. You’ve got far more to say than most of us.”

Henry. Ever the diplomat.

Walton took the proffered chair. It could have been Victor’s imagination, but he seemed smaller while he wasn’t talking. He had heard of some strange breed who spoke in earnest when they were nervous. He didn’t imagine he’d ever meet one in the flesh.

With Hether and Simpson on watch and with Clayton doing whatever it was that he was meant to be doing while he and Henry were relieved (Victor suspected sleep), he sat down at the table as well. Henry and Robert seemed to have formed a fragile sort of camaraderie, the way that new ice does. Like particles seeking one another out. Victor knew that they would be friends, and he would have to find another. It was the way of things, it seemed.

But for all Henry’s easiness, Walton seemed on edge. His new position, Victor thought. He didn’t know how to act as one of them without being one of them. Or worse; he only knew _how_ to act like one of them.

A silence that might have been uncomfortable spread, had Walton not decided to break with protocol and ask, “Did either of you know Mr. Lowe?”

Victor looked at Henry just as Henry looked at Victor. There wasn’t a good way to tell someone that their outgoing officer had been found on deck one night, alone with two tongues.

“I knew him slightly,” offered Henry. Not that Victor could have offered anything. “Seemed like a nice bloke. Not that anyone would - deserve that.”

Walton nodded. Victor wondered exactly how much he’d been told.

They were all on edge when the door opened and Pete Clayton walked in holding a piece of toast.

“Oh?” asked Henry. “What are you doing up and about so early?”

Pete put the toast in his mouth, shut the door and pulled up a chair in a single motion. “Being polite, Clerval.” He removed it to offer his hand to Walton. “Sub-Lieutenant Peter Clayton, sir. Pleased to meet you.”

“Lieutenant Robert Walton. Likewise. Been here long?”

Pete chewed, a hand over his mouth. “ _Justinian_ for seven months. Just enough to catch the tail end of Dogger Bank. Been in service since last June.”

“Coming up to nine months, Sub-Lieutenant. You’ll be able to try for a full lieutenancy soon.”

“Not seen enough action for that I don’t think, sir. Besides, Simpson’s next in line for the deck jump. He’s out on watch at the moment. Make sure we don’t run aground on the Isle of Wight.”

He took another bite of his toast. It was not lost on Victor that - for the first time in Victor’s hearing – it wasn’t referred to as the ‘Pile of Shite’.

“Not a lot of action in these parts, I understand?” He phrased it as a question, but they all knew what he had meant. _There’s not much I can do here, is there? Have I really got to live here?_

Henry picked it up, with his patrician grace. “Not that we’ve seen, sir. I understand you’ve been through the mill a bit?”

Walton was obviously not a proud man, but Victor recognised a stroked ego when he saw one. “Just doing my bit,” he demurred. “Besides, it all seems quite ordinary once you get there. You spend so much of your time training for what _could_ happen that when the situation does arise it’s never as bad as you’d think. And it’s not like I’ve seen anything-”

He stopped himself, but the word still hung in the air. _Else_.

“I suppose you’ve heard,” said Clayton. He scratched at some crumbs which had stuck to the table. “Toast, by the way, anyone? The galley’s just done a whole batch, that bread is on the turn.”

“I think we’ll manage, Pete,” said Henry, not taking his eyes off Walton.

Walton smiled tightly. “Yes. It was part of my coming over here that they disclosed exactly what – happened.”

 _And you still came?_ thought Victor.

“Yet here you are,” said Henry. “A braver man than most.”

A self-conscious smile tugged at Walton once more. _A tic_ , realised Victor.

“’Brave’ may be the wrong word, Sub-Lieutenant. ‘Foolhardy’, perhaps. It all seems so close, doesn’t it? A duplicator in the Channel.

An unpleasant sensation passed through the gunroom. Walton had just said something he wasn’t supposed to say, and they knew it.

A ‘duplicator’. Walton must be a naval man. There were so many terms thrown around so liberally that it was often the most lurid, striking ones that got picked up. Not that there was ever much to pick up, literally or metaphorically. It reminded Victor of the papers which had stalked Jack the Ripper into infamy. All sound, all fury. Signifying – in the end – nothing.

And yet picked up they were. Earlier, before the War had got going in earnest, the Home Office had decided that they couldn’t keep the story at an arm’s length and had devised a several pronged beast to attack with. The first one had been to offload as much as they could to the Ministry of Defence, it seemed. Whatever they couldn’t manage went to the Foreign Office. No unsubstantiated claims or deliberately misleading headlines, op-eds or otherwise were to be published without being signed off on threefold by either the FO or the MoD, whichever academic was closest at the time and the Home Office itself. Any budding stories or witness accounts were to be investigated by a member of the Home Office and the Natural History Museum before the journalists were allowed within fifty feet of the case. Supposedly. It was all very Defence of the Realm.

Secondly, there was the matter of nomenclature.

Not that such a field existed. Whatever was found – or whatever was left – had given an indefinite and ambiguous way of grouping whatever it was they were dealing with that wasn’t Jerry. By this point, Jerry were seen as rather an imbuggerance than anything else. The names being thrown around by the press had been far too panic-worthy to be allowed by-the-by. Victor remembered by. The Deboner. Striator. Bleeders. The Puppeteer. Most of them inaccurate and hurriedly assigned, reflecting very little of what had actually happened (or, reflecting what had happened without the appropriate context. Victor couldn’t parse how context would make those names better). Each name was gained from each victim. They didn’t know what had caused it. They couldn’t. One thing? Many of them? Where, and how? The more anaemic, objective labels foisted by the Home Office tried to temper this. Victor didn’t know if Robert was using them to try and quell their fears or because he was just that much of a naval man.

The Duplicator. _The Mimeo_ , he remembered. Not from anywhere he knew. A sheep farmer in Otago had lost some of his flock over a cliff, and those that came back came back with too much of them. When was this? He’d still been in school. Five, six years? _The Mimeograph_. That had been one of the very, very first, as he remembered it. Thinking back, it couldn’t have been. They’d had names for them by then. That, and they hadn’t even been aware of how much worse things could be until 1913.

The Mimeograph. It sounded so playful. A child’s silent picture film.

Somewhere, over time, over change and over the War, that name had become the Duplicator. Named because it duplicates. It doesn’t duplicate well.

“Well,” said Henry, checking his watch. “It’s all very-”

Whatever he was going to say, he never got a chance to finish. Three things then happened at once. Firstly, Clayton’s crumb-wrangling boiled out of hand and finessed with him knocking his whole, uneaten slice onto the deck head. There was no great tragedy in that. Secondly, the ten bells sounded. One o’clock. Thirdly, Styles appeared at the door. Victor hadn’t seen the steward since he was woken up by him this morning. He assumed he’d gone to bed.

“Begging your pardon, sirs, but you’re needed out on deck.”

Pete slid his piece of toast as far away as it could go with his foot. Henry and Walton were already almost out of their seats.

“Is there a problem, Styles?” Clayton asked.

Styles’s face remained impassive. “You might say that, sir. It looks like Jerry wants to take things up a notch. Captain’s out on deck now. You’ll all want to hear this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rob!!


	8. Chapter 8

And so everyone did, because they were going to war the next day and day after that, one of them would be killed.

The announcement, as it happened, was twofold. It wasn’t that they were heading into the warzone, so much as they were directly in the middle of it overnight.

The German High Seas Fleet had announced what they called a ‘warning’. Everything from south of the Shetland Isles had been declared part of the war. Any enemy vessel was to be sunk without warning. They might not be able to distinguish between the enemy vessels and the neutral ones. They might not be able to distinguish between the neutral vessels and their own. That was a risk they were willing to take.

“And so what?” asked Styles. “They’re going to do what? Just start hammering at whoever until they get the right one?”

They were standing assembled on the deck. Keene was on the forecastle with his lieutenants. The big 13.5s were overhead. His face was grim, and Styles’ words did not change it. He carried on as if he hadn’t heard. Someone clapped Styles on the back regardless.

“You can see the position this places us in,” he said. The shadow of the back chimney hung over him and into the sea beyond. “You can see what we are all dealing with.”

“What about the Channel?” someone shouted.

That got a reaction, the unspoken question in it. Bathurst’s mouth twisted sardonically and he looked down at his feet. Keene kept his gaze up, but not on the crew. What about it? What about what was beneath their feet?

“Well,” said Keene, after what felt like more time than it must have been. “That forms the second part of what we’re here to say.”

                We can stay and face off with the Imperial Navy’s finest, or we can stay here and face off with what else is here. I don’t want to do either, and I daresay all of you agree with me. The Admiralty certainly does. We’ve had our marching orders.” There was a ripple which was muffled by discipline. “We’re off to do what the half jacks do best.

                Obviously we can’t stop our shipping. The Germans know this; they’re trying to put the frighteners on us. The more they emphasise their presence in the Channel, the more they hope we’ll try and take our shipping around over the Shetlands. Even in the winter it isn’t particularly more dangerous if you’re an experienced skipper. They know this, too. They’re trying to divert our best men. They’re trying to get our ships off the Belgian coast. Well. We have our best men, and our best men are staying put. We have the shipping and we have the manpower. They wouldn’t be threatening us like this if they knew they could beat us in a fair fight. We’re going to show them that they can’t. We’re not going to let this interfere with our shipping or with our supplies. We’ll keep using our channels, and we’ll keep using – if you’ll pardon the pun – the Channel. What we _won’t_ do, however, is put anyone in any more danger than they have to be in.

                We’re armed and we’re trained, and  - crucially - we know what to expect from the sea. Our fishermen don’t. Our merchantmen don’t. Our civilians don’t. We went to war to protect them, and now we go into battle to protect them. We’re sailing for the west coast of Ireland. All going to plan, we should be there by early tomorrow morning. From there we’ll meet up with the rest of our convoy mates, and form an escort out of Queenstown. Needless to say, we are now on a battle footing.” Victor thought he saw a smile. “Welcome to war, men.”

*

“Keene is a tall ship captain, he still thinks we’re fighting the Boers. Did you hear all that up there? ‘ _Now we go into battle to protect them’_? Bloody man thinks it’s Trafalgar. They’re sending us up there because they don’t know what else to do with us.”

“They’re sending us up there to keep us out of the way,” said Henry, resting on his clasped hands.  “What better way to deal with Jerry and a Mimeo? Whatever happens, it’s a win for us.”

Clayton, his feet on the table, gestured to him in agreement. “Exactly. Listen to him. I’m amazed he could talk for that long without keeling over.” He paused, and added; “Sorry Frankenstein, I know he’s a pal of your old man.”

Victor waved it away. Clayton paused, and then he carried on. “Anyway. It’s only a convoy duty.”

“How many others do you reckon they’ll put on?”

“With us?” Clayton shrugged. “Depends on who we’re accompanying, I suppose. It’s probably going to be a big bugger if they’re that worried about it.”

“Jerry are hardly going to go around picking off fishing smacks, are they?” said Henry, who had not changed his position since he sat down. He was leaning on his elbows, his chin on the heel of his hand. “And what’s worth going transatlantic?”

“Maybe nothing?” Clayton suggested. “Maybe we’re only going over there to pick something up.”  


“From the Americans?” asked Victor.

Clayton snorted. “Christ, no. Canadians, perhaps?”

“Passenger liner?” suggested Henry. “Troop carrier?”

Clayton nodded, considering. “Possibly.”

He thought, and then, “You know, Henry, would make sense.”

Finding Clayton dead was, in hindsight, the point of where things stopped making sense. Victor had thought it had all begun with Lowe.

“And?” people said, whenever he deigned to broach it. The worst was, “It’s a service ship. This is what you get.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there mothered fuckers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! it's me back with your twice yearly update.
> 
> a note re. this fic: i have like 45,000 words of it kicking around on a doc and it's just getting weirder and weirder as time goes on (what can i say, i read a LOT of alastair mcclean as a kid), so when i say Slow Burn............. boy howdy


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know more than i want to about astro-nav and now you're going to too

But before all of this had started, before they found the body on the fo’c’sle (a Monday, Victor would always remember. Technically, the second day of the week), they had to get to Ireland. And in order to get to Ireland, they had to sail. Victor and Henry both did everything that had been asked of them in order to make sure that the sailing was done. Both wished that they hadn’t, in hindsight.

Walton made a habit of being about as present as it was possible to be at all points during the day. Victor wondered if the man ever slept. He was always _somewhere_ , whether it was on deck when he was, or around the galley, or with his head in the gunroom _‘just to see how things were getting on’_. They couldn’t get rid of the man. And the ever-present _friendliness_. Victor couldn’t escape. Nor was he sure it was quite appropriate to do so. There must be some protocol? There must be some way to make sure he was being dismissive (in the proper manner) without being rude? He wasn’t sure. Nor could he ask, really. Who would he ask? Henry? All of Henry’s manner was friendly. He didn’t want to look less of an officer in the eyes of anyone else. Or rather; any less of a gentleman. A true gentleman would know how to keep the situation formal and on the edge of friendliness – camaraderie without the awkward business of being friends and having to talk to the man.

Victor didn’t count himself as a temporary gentleman, necessarily. He was certainly on the edge of the spectrum; upper-middle class or – at a very muscular push – lower upper. He had the parental status, although a parochial doctor stationed outside of London proper was a considerable step down from Harley Street. His mother had been a minor heiress, which rather implied she had something to be the heir of. She was one of the youngest of seven sisters, and all of the property had gone to their cousin anyway. At Sevenoaks, he had managed to come across them by the thousand. He had tackled and taken tackles from ministers’ sons on the rugby pitch; held the door for a rather diminutive prince several years below him. In his first year, he had helped the Belgian heir apparent gather eraser pickings from the floorboards in order to stock up on ammunition for one of the regular yet spontaneous ‘eraser fights’. That one in particular had never come, he remembered. Who knew about the heir apparent? He knew all too well about Belgium. If anything, the constant exposure to what he could be helped cement what he wasn’t. His family had ‘done well’, and ‘doing meant they had well to do. Had somewhere to start from, or had started from lower than they could have done.

The move to Dartmouth hadn’t been completely unprecedented. He and his father had both grown up on a steady stream of sea stories. He had watched the mercy ships roll out of the Thames from the sick and stinking centre of London some mornings, if he was early enough. He wondered how many would be in the Atlantic, now? Surely not any that he’d seen. They’d all have hit Holland or Denmark before making the turn around Scotland or the journey through the Channel.

What was the maritime law for a mercy ship which hits another ship? Was it the same as it was for landfall? It couldn’t be, surely? There’d be no sense in that. Although once out of sight of land, did what you did on or to a mercy really matter?

His lesson in astro-navigation had been postponed, but not cancelled. His watch duty had not been changed at all, and so it was up to him to make sure that he was in both places as soon as could be. His team were covering both first dog and first watch. Covering the forenoon got Victor off the hook of the first dog, even if it did mean him picking up a shift twice as long until midnight. All for the routine, he supposed. He had managed to get away with shifting his navigation until four o’clock, reasoning it would be darker. That it gave him a few hours to catch up in bed was neither here nor there.

As it happened, he slept sounder than he thought he would and barely spilled out of bed until the eight bells told him it was time to be up on the fo’c’sle. He appeared, still tucking various parts of uniform protruding and straightening woollen garments, hoping it wouldn’t reflect on him too badly. He was feeling groggy, as the aftermath of daytime sleeping can sometimes so. His face was creased with various pillow-markings. Still, he hoped. There was always the probability that the man had seen worse.

 Master Bowles was a man of indeterminate age, face and stature. He could be anywhere from forty to sixty, or maybe a hard-done-by thirty five. There was nothing to suggest any experience or expertise beyond his uniform, and beyond the few rudimentary instruments he had brought with him up to the deck. Among them Victor noticed a pencil and paper.

The master smiled when he saw him. If Victor had been a different man, he may even have counted it as a beam. He took the offered hand.

“Frankenstein?,” said Bowles. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Victor tried to squeeze out a smile. “All good I hope, sir.”

“Depends who you listen to,” Bowles said, letting go of his hand. “I hear you’ve had something to say about the compasses?”

Victor felt the blood flush to his face. He tried to stammer out his reasoning. “All that I meant, sir, was that the relative newness of the Sperrys, it’s as well to have a contingency.”

“Which is?”

Victor fought off the heat in his cheeks and forehead. “It depends on the situation, sir?”

“Such as? And drop the ‘sir’, boy, I’m not your superior.”

Victor chewed the inside of his lip, formulating an answer. “Here. For example.”

Bowles looked at him expectantly.

“Here,” he carried on. “If one of them were to become non-operational here, it’s simply a matter of orientating ourselves via more analogue means. If the gyro fails, we have a – or what I hope is – a relatively accurately calculated margin for possible error. Any sign of the readings roaming should have been caught and dealt with by now. The only way we could go completely off-course is with a catastrophic failure of all four compasses at the same time.”

“That likely, do you think, Frankenstein?” Bowles interjected.

“I – don’t see why it would be, sir.”

Bowles nodded. Then, “Good. Neither do I. But I’m impressed by your mental arithmetic anyway, Frankenstein.”

“Nothing that wouldn’t come to everyone, sir,” said Victor, hoping that he wouldn’t pick up on the two accidental ‘sirs’ which had slipped out.

“I have no doubt of that, Frankenstein,” said Bowles, looking for all intents like he may play the game. “I simply doubt anyone else would do so much of it while not at gunpoint.”

This time Victor’s smile was genuine. “It’s something I enjoy,”

Bowles cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so? You should be a treat to teach, then. Explain ex-meridian to me.”

Victor did. And then he did more, explaining how to take a longitudinal reading, what complications it may result in over the Atlantic, how to prevent clouds from confusing them. How to repair a compass, if possible. He could do so in theory. The new model Sperrys were a bit more of a challenge, but surely what goes for one can’t be that different from them all?

The gyro was relatively straightforward, anyhow.

And the paper. All of it. He had been right to be suspicious. Bowles had no mercy when it came to writing, and not simply notes or field calculations. He had expected Victor to be able to tell him when and where, almost to the decimal point, how to calculate whatever was asked of him. He would give Victor random scenarios, usually somewhere godforgotten in the middle of combat in which to calculate the exact location of the ship. Something to be expected of a future navigator, perhaps. An officer?

Victor thought of bringing this up, but thought better of it.

Bowles must have read it somewhere, though, because as they ended for the night he had said to Victor, “You know I wouldn’t have put you through that if I didn’t think you could do it.”

Victor smiled tightly, nodded and made his way back down below decks. Since they had started moving the smoke belching off the half jack had become understandably worse. The clouds it dissipated into the sky were virtually indistinguishable from the clouds that were there to begin with once they got to about fifty feet. It made it difficult to see the stars. How would they sail by them, if their own engines covered them from sight?

Bowles didn’t seem to mind or care or notice. Packing up, he glanced at the sky only briefly. The ship wasn’t half as lit as it could - or, Victor wondered, should - be. The sea hissed against the bow, but the water itself was calm. The cloud that shrouded it in the crepuscular February dusk made it seem as if they were the only ones on the water forever. It looked so ancient, lying out there.

The lights were dimmed for that reason. Anyone who knew where they were should be able to pick them up. That did include the Jerries, although he shouldn’t wonder they’d come so close to the coast. They must be coming up along to Cornwall now. Would they go around or through the Isles of Scilly? Around, surely. The draft on a half jack wasn’t much, but it wasn’t worth risking the rocks at the bottom for to shave a few minutes off their journey. Although if a half jack could barely pass by the shallow sea floor, a U-boat wouldn’t be able to either.

All the purpose of the watch, he supposed.

Bowles returned one of Victor’s tight smiles. “Been in the service long, Mr Frankenstein?”

“Not at all,” he said, oddly self-assured. “This time last week I still had to pass out.”

Bowles made an expression Victor couldn’t quite see. “Very fresh. Living up to your expectations so far?”

“Insofar as I had them,” replied Victor. He couldn’t take his eyes off the sky.

“It bodes well for me that you’re so fascinated by up there,” Bowles added after a while. “Ever thought about going into navigation?”

“Not particularly. I never really thought about going into the Navy.”

“Well. If you should happen to have one of those non-thoughts, do bear us in mind. We could always do with some more on hand.

 _Master’s mates_ , thought Victor. The master’s mates had been midshipmen, once upon a time. Was this a subtle hint at a contingency if he failed his lieutenant’s exam? Surely if he were likely to, he wouldn’t have passed out at all? He was already a naval officer. He was just under training. Still, there was always the possibility he could fail the training.

He wondered. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, after all.

Maybe it would.

He followed Bowles down across the deck and back below. The eerie twilight had shifted now, no longer seemed as otherworldly. The shapes moving along it were discernible, faces and names which he was beginning to know. Two bells. He had some time in which to get himself ready for the first watch. He had work for Bowles, of course, until their next session.

This was the other purpose of a half jack. A sort of finishing school for young subalterns. They had so many purposes, and fulfilled not one of them totally. Just another brick to be got through.

The first dogwatch had just taken off, taking Clayton and the elusive Simpson with it, although Henry might be around. If the first dogwatch was on, so was dinner. He wondered about going down to the galley to scrounge something himself, even if it may put Styles out of a job. Although. Would the ratings be that impressed with an officer wandering about? Probably not. He headed back to the gunroom quietly, hoping to at least get some navigational questions answered in the event he was alone. It was just like being at school again.

And he was alone, for a time. It took just about him to fall asleep. Some food had arrived in the interim, a staple bowl of stew which he assumed might be beef. So much more like school that he realised. If he had, it might have been a different story altogether.

The stew was gluey, and there was bread to go with it. Dinner usually lasted for forty-five minutes, but it was far more of a moveable feast than anything relating to ‘military discipline’ would have you believe. He kept expecting someone to come and sit with him, if nothing else so that he didn’t accidentally get gravy on his papers. There was nothing but the generic sounds of talking from across the rooms, intermingled with some shouting and a rather sharp clang against the bulkhead. It matched almost exactly with the bell tolling to such an extent he almost didn’t register that the eighth bell had gone to signal the end of the last dogwatch.

He gathered his things together, coming down to the watch station to meet Bathurst, who looked every bit as usual as he usually did. If Victor didn’t know better, he’d say he’d been asleep.

“Nothing to report, Frankenstein. We’re just passing Salcombe now; once we’ve headed around the Scilly Isles it’s a straight steam all the way into Queenstown. Eaten, have you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unlucky you. I caught some just before I came on, so at least it was hot. You’re on, Frankenstein. Don’t get us sunk.”

Victor tried to smile. “I won’t, sir.”

They set their watches and he departed. Bathurst’s perennial brand of good humour, a dry wit like a schoolmaster you weren’t initially sure of, seemed impermeable. He wondered how much the man really trusted him.

A slight clatter announced the arrival of Danvers, looking less lively than usual. Being at sail must be a  bit of a body shock once you had got used to being at anchor for so long. The Justinians appeared to be in a routine. He raised an eyebrow at Danvers in greeting, but he had already turned to the other flag officer. Danvers but his headphones on.

The _Justinian_ had a draught of sixteen feet. A watch error of thirty seconds could cause a drift of up to 12 kilometres. That could be rather tricky when setting your watch via sextant could only be accurate to the minute. As long as they had a record of whose watch they were sailing by under how many seconds’ margin. The papers which Victor had been using on the Sperrys had been returned to the drawer which held the Articles of War. He picked them up and absorbed them into his sheaf from Bowles. Bathurst, as was his habit, had left a half-drunk cup of tea on the table. It had congealed greyly.

He hadn’t seen Henry for some time. Had he eaten before? He was probably asleep, Victor reasoned. Still, it was unlike him to come by. Unless he had woken up late. Or maybe he simply now expected Victor to be able to get by on his own, without someone holding his hand. Victor supposed that he should, too.

Getting to the Scilly Isles wasn’t difficult and required barely a turn on his part. Danvers and the bridge had them covered via U-boat. It seemed strange, in this era of electricity and flight, that they still had to stand on deck and watch for danger. Some things are just constant, he supposed. He considered asking Danvers if he’d seen Clerval at all, but it didn’t seem important enough to warrant disturbing him from his post. If he missed the microscopic changes in the water which might herald a submarine and got them all sunk, Bathurst would be cross.

It turned out, of course, that he was worrying about the wrong man.

When midnight came and Hether appeared to relieve him, all Victor could think about was going to bed properly. He handed his station over, filled Hether in on where they were (just coming up to Gilstone) and when they were expected to land in Queenstown (just past six in the morning, into Simpson’s watch). Hether nodded sleepily and took Victor’s seat form him. Victor left with Danvers, trying to engage him in conversation, but Danvers had taken off down the corridor before he could do much. _It could be anything_ , Victor told himself. Most likely the heads. Sitting in one position for four hours with nothing to do but drink tea took its toll on a man. If he had hear anything worthwhile, he would have reported to Victor.

He sat on the side of his rack and pulled his boots off. Even a few days in had made him go lax when it came to dressing and undressing. He hung up his tunic and belt, intending to sleep in his undergarments and maybe the pyjama trousers he had brought from home. The February air was still biting, but two decks under and stacked on top of both the galley and the engines, the quarters had their own kind of warmth. Not to add the heat generated by six adult men.

He couldn’t see well enough to tell who was here and who was not, but undressed as quietly as he could anyway. He stowed his boots under his rack and huddled under his scratchy blanket, only to be woken urgently a few hours later.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there aren't any graphic depictions of violence in this chapter but it does still deal with the aftermath and investigation into a murder. also it opens with victor musing on his mother's death (which ends at the first asterisk).
> 
> also there's your general low-lying bio-horror because it's frankenstein

Victor’s mother had climbed the whole case of stairs before she died, and everyone on each floor had a reason not to help her. He knew this. So did they. The Rubicon was crossed when they all realised they had somewhere else to be. It reminded him of how the world worked. His father wasn’t a doctor forever.

Anyway. They asked him in for a third opinion, after Peter Clayton was pronounced dead. They all agreed on the same thing. His head had not come from his body via natural causes.

*

The ship creaked. Victor was sat with Danvers, Simpson and Walton in Keene’s cabin. There were other officers there; Bathurst and Butlin and Eccleston. Hether and Rogers, the full lieutenant, were still on watch. It was three o’clock in the morning. The body had been discovered half an hour ago.

No one had said a word.

They sat and stood. Victor was sitting. Danvers had his knees apart and his head in his hands. Robert Walton stood behind him, gripping the back of his chair so fiercely his knuckles had  gone white. His jaw was clenched.

Keene sat at his desk, the desk taking all his weight.

“Obviously,” he said at last. “There are certain things which need to be done.”

‘Certain’. There were plenty. Identifying the murderer. Finding the murderer. Finding another officer. Arresting the murderer. Setting sail across the Atlantic.

There was, however, the complicating factor of the body.

It had been found by Second Lieutenant Butlin, the officer on deck. It was wet and well placed, lying among the caggage of the fo’c’sle, not hidden yet not prevalent enough to be instantly noticeable. The body was sitting up; the head was nowhere to be found.

This, of course, meant that it was forbidden to touch it. The spectre of Chadd hung over all of them still.

“Mr Frankenstein.”

Victor looked up.

“You saw the body.”

“Yes, captain.”

Keene looked away, nodded. “Can you describe what you saw. Please.”

The medical officer and his disciples were there, on deck. The chaplain was as well, when Victor had been there. He had wondered, at first, why they needed him, although now he thought he understood. Someone to report back. The impartial word of another officer. And a witness. He didn’t know much about filing a death; did it have to include the testimony of someone impartial? Did that still happen at sea?

They were still within the remit of British maritime law. It would be a capital offence.

He wondered if they’d be prevented from sailing.

Keene looked grave. Victor didn’t want to carry on talking if it would make him worse.

“I was got out of bed by Lieutenant Walton,” he began. “He asked me when I last saw Mr Clayton. I said I wasn’t sure; most likely mid-afternoon in the gunroom. He wasn’t there when I came back from astro-nav. I assumed he was getting some sleep before his watch.”

“You’re not on trial, Victor,” Keene said. “Tell us what happened when Mr Walton came to your quarters.”

Victor nodded, hot. All eyes were on him. “Mr Walton came to fetch me and asked me to come with him. I put my coat on over my pyjamas. Mr Walton sent me up here, and then one of the orderlies came and asked if I could look over the body. My father was a doctor,” he added, somewhat redundantly. “I used to help him around the surgery when I was younger. Back from school. I’m not an expert, but I know my way around.” _Around what_? he asked himself. _A head_?

Keene nodded. Victor noticed that the first lieutenant was writing. No-one else moved. “What did you see on deck.”

“The orderly brought me up to the fo'c'sle. That’s where I saw the - body. The MO was already there. He asked me to tell him what I saw.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I saw a man with no head, sir.”

It was silent. Eccleston had stopped writing.

“And what did the body look like?” Keene asked, gently.

“It was propped up, sir. Like it was sitting.” Victor dug his fingernails into his thumb. “The arms were laid out to the side. Not like it was posed, just – there. The legs were drawn up. To keep it in place, I assumed. To keep it – sitting.”

“And who else was there?”

“Me,” he counted. “The MO. The chaplain. The orderly who had brought me up and another orderly I don’t know the name of. They were both either side of it.”

“Had anyone touched the body?”

“No, nobody. We weren’t close enough.”

“Did you know it was Mr Clayton?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to tell straight away, sir, but Mr Walton’s question had rather given it away. He was in an officer’s uniform, sir. From what I could see.”

“From what you could see?”

“It was dark, sir. And there was-”

“Alright,” said Keene, holding up a hand. “Thank you, Victor. You’ve done well.”

A hand squeezed his shoulder. It was gone almost as suddenly as it arrived; he couldn’t tell who it was. The second dead officer in a week.

“It’s obvious,” said Keene, his vocabulary seemingly diminished in the past twelve hours, “ that there are two possibilities here.”

The two possibilities rang out loud in the cabin. Nobody wanted to voice them.

“The first is that this was a murder.” This was Eccleston. He had looked up form recording Victor’s statement. He pushed the papers to one side, towards the captain, and leaned forward on his elbows. “The second – well. I’m sure we all know what the second is. We won’t know much until we’re in Queenstown, and even then they won’t be able to tell us a great deal before we sail.”

There was a brief furore.

“Surely we’re not still intending to go?” asked Walton, whose voice rang out the loudest. He was still holding the back of the chair, his face blanched and flushed with _noblesse oblige_. “Not after this. We can’t.”

If it were anyone else, Victor thought, Eccleston wouldn’t have bothered to answer. But Walton was a war hero. He had almost been at Heligoland. Instead, Eccleston sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Despite appearances, it didn’t seem exasperated. Merely tired. “The Admiralty will have the final say, of course. They could say no. But given the circumstances we’re under, I’m not convinced that they will. Ireland is the last British territory before we hit the other side of the Atlantic, if the situation can’t be taken care of there, it can’t be resolved at any time in the voyage.”

“But we’ve already lost three officers!”

“And gained back two,” Eccleston countered. “And we would still have one of them if he weren’t hell bent on being such a prat. We can’t do anything at all until the MO gives us a cause of death.”

“A cause of death! His head’s off!”

Eccleston looked at Walton levelly. Robert’s eyes were flashing. He looked, for all intents and purposes, genuinely grief-stricken. While everyone else still had to internalise the magnitude of their situation, Robert Walton seemed to have moved several steps beyond all of them. The first lieutenant waited until enough beats had gone by that he was sure Walton was not going to foster any more interjections. He was sure everyone in the cabin was thinking the same thing.

“We don’t know how it came off yet.”

There was a question. Had it been cut off? Or had it been chewed.

“It’s unlikely that anything else happened,” said Keene, eager to reign the conversation back in. “We’re all too caught up in what happened to poor Mr Lowe to realise that the circumstances are nothing the same. It is far more likely to be a man aboard, no matter how disturbing the prospect may be.”

“So they’ll be a court martial?” asked Robert, trying to gain the advantage.

“They’ll be an arrest first.”

“And how will that happen? To have an arrest there needs to be an investigation. And to have an investigation, we need to be docked.”

“We don’t need to be docked, Mr Walton,” said Eccleston, at last. “We don’t need to be docked if the police feel there is a reasonable suspicion.”

“A reasonable suspicion? You’ve just said yourself we’re not even sure _what_ killed him!”

“Mr Walton,” Eccleston said. “You are not privy to any and all of the goings on on this ship.”

Walton was quiet, although his jaw grew tighter. Victor expected it to burst.

“If they feel it is necessary, they may install a policeman,” said Keene patiently. As officers we have the right to arrest and detain anyone who we feel may be an active threat or a suspect, but the MoD have their own way of doing things. If they can, I expect they’ll make themselves present any way they can spare.”

“And what if he gets bumped off, too?”

The voice came from beside Walton, but it was not his. Danvers, Victor’s signalman, was coldly furious. “What then? What if we end up sailing from here all the way to the bloody States with a murderer in our midst? What then?” He added, “sir”.

Eccleston and Butlin looked tired. Victor could tell they felt the need to intervene on behalf of the captain, but both appeared to hope the other would do it. As Butlin opened his mouth, Keene said “It’s an understandable concern, Danvers. However, it is not likely to come true. Whoever – or whatever – committed this act must know we are going to be in convoy. We have five armed Royal Navy ships at our disposal. We are safer there than we are now.”

Danvers’ mouth twisted.

“Apologies,” he said at last. “Sir.”

Keene held up his hand, but didn’t say anything else.

“It’s nearly four o’clock,” said Eccleston, checking his watch. “We – the captain and I – feel it best that we carry on as normally as we can. Walton and Simpson, you’re on morning watch? Take your stations, we’ll be in Queenstown soon.”

They nodded once, Walton still visibly unhappy, and departed.

Keene watched them go, then turned to the rest of them. “We’ve radioed ahead to Queenstown. They are aware of the situation. We will be met by the military police as we dock, and some of you may be asked to give statements. Be prepared to be awake at four bells. We are one of the last ships expected. The _Medusa_ may be held up passing through the Irish Channel, but for now we must assume that we are the last member of the convoy to make it to port. The Admiralty are both aware of the situation we are in and the time frame in which they have to act. I expect them to have made a decision by noon.

 _That soon_? thought Victor.

“Mr Eccleston has said, and I agree, that it is most likely that we’ll be given the orders to carry on. While horrific, this situation is not unheard of. The sea attracts all sorts of men. We must carry on as if we mean to sail tomorrow.”

Keene, suddenly, looked incredibly old.

“I will send someone to collect you if your statement is needed. These will take place in the wardroom. Please be dressed fittingly as an officer in the Royal Navy.”

*

They were waiting in the harbour.

Queenstown was a deep water port, its quay measuring in at twenty feet alongside the berths. It fed the town of Cork; it had to be deep. She was the last stop of the _Titanic_ and of so many in the penal colonies. The _Justinian_ wasn’t allowed to dock there.

He understood why. Too much of a risk to have the culprit fleeing, spooked crewmen deserting. The Dockyard Police rowed up.

Victor was barely awake, having been too panicked about oversleeping to sleep at all. He had eventually decided to give up altogether about an hour before they anchored and stepped out on deck. The mornings were late in February. The lights around the deck hung low, water sparking off the wood. The wake they left was hot and white. The chimneys made them known only to the sky. He wondered how many other people had seen the world like this. How many other men had sailed this route, this channel into Queenstown harbour.

They were slowing, now. The coast of Ireland had been hanging on the horizon, swapping places periodically with banks of cloud. A gull passed over. He had gone down for breakfast, managed to force feed himself some porridge and had come back up with a cup of black coffee. He never was a fan of the sugar in the tea.

And as he stood and watched the dinghy row towards them, he felt very small indeed.

The officer on deck was Bathurst, or maybe Bathurst was just the officer who happened to be on deck at the time. He and Keene stood at the top of the scramble net. It was an undignified way to enter the ship.

There were four of them. Victor took note of them as they came on board.

Four men, all a similar height and stature. No one remarking feature, save one who’s hat almost came off on a slight gust. He supposed it may have been dislodged by the climb aboard. Maybe his head was just big.

They all converged. Then they left.  Down to the wardroom, Victor supposed, or maybe the captain’s cabin. Wherever the personnel documents were stored. God knows what his said.

There was a brief flash, again and again. Each one as regular as the other. A lighthouse.

*

They came for Victor in the gunroom, like he supposed they would. He’d been waiting in the gunroom so they knew where to find him, alone.

There was a knock.

“Come.”

Styles’ head came apologetically from around the doorframe. He looked awful.

“Men in the wardroom for you, sir.”

Victor nodded and put on his cap. “Thank you, Styles. Lead the way.”

He did. Victor saw that his initial impression of the men hadn’t been far off at all.

The Dockyard Police were a division of the Metropolitan Police. They had all the same rights and responsibilities. There were two men in here, both of them of a very particular look and stature. Their pair nowhere to be found. Victor wasn’t quite sure how to address them.

He held out his hand.

“Sub-Lieutenant Frankenstein.”

The policeman closest to him nodded, after a pause, and took Victor’s hand in his. The pause could well have been deliberate. He would never have known.

“Banksworthy. Dockyards Police.”

“Pleasure.”

“Yes.”

Banksworthy dropped Victor’s hand. Victor sat.

Keene, or Keene’s steward, had arranged the room to make it more fitting for an interview procedure. It was still recognisably a wardroom, although not one he’d ever been in before.

The wardroom on the _Justinian_ stood on ceremony. There was a globe in the corner, where the full windows would have been two hundred years ago. The remains of breakfast had been too hastily cleared, and toast crumbs and tea-rings littered the table. The stewards had had their work cut out.

The table was drawn to one side, and then someone had realised they’d never be able to make the room habitable without it. One chair was set up on one side, three on the other. They were central to the room, on the far left of where the table had been dragged to. It gave the room a half-finished feel. It was like the set of some schoolboy play.

Perhaps they had expected more policemen. Banksworthy and his companion sat on one side. He motioned for Victor to do the same.

Banksworthy opened a file and wrote something at the top. Then he glanced at Victor.

“Full name?”

“Victor Aurelius Frankenstein.”

“Aurelius? Father a Classics fan, was he?”

“Yes. Sir?”

“Don’t worry with the honourifics, Frankenstein, you don’t work for me.” He glanced up. “Been in the service long?”

“Since Thursday.”

A pause. Then, “Since Thursday. Alright. Been aboard the _Justinian_ the whole time?”

“Yes,” he said, almost adding a ‘sir’. “Yes, I have.”

“From where?”

“Southampton. Via Dartmouth.”

“The Naval College?”

“Yes.”

“Pass out, did you?”

“I did. On Monday.”

“On Monday,” Banksworthy repeated, writing. “They must have wanted you.”

He finished what seemed to have been an intentionally verbose way of writing down what Victor had told him. Then he passed the folder and the pen over to his comrade sat to the right of him.

“Alright. Now all of that is out the way, allow me to introduce us. My name is Nathaniel Banksworthy, this is my co-worker Daniel Gardner. We’re just here to take your statement and ask you a few questions about the death of Sub-Lieutenant Peter Clayton. I understand you were at the scene, am I right?”

A beat passed. Then Victor said, “At the scene of what, sir?”

“The murder, Frankenstein.”

“No,” said Victor. “I wasn’t. But I was one of the witnesses who viewed the body.”

Banksworthy didn’t seem to know or care about his wording. He carried on, “You viewed the body. Under what circumstance?”

“I was asked to.”

“By whom?”

“The Medical Officer. He sent an orderly to collect me for a third opinion.”

“A third opinion, hey? Who were number one and two?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I assume the medical officer and the most senior orderly.”

“Not the person who found the body?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“No need to call me ‘sir’, Frankenstein.” Now that he wasn’t writing and had nowhere else to focus, Banksworthy had fixed himself on the bridge of Victor’s nose and seemed unwilling to let go. “You came to view the body. From where?”

“From the captain’s cabin. I was called to the scene.”

“By whom?”

“By the orderly.”

“Does this orderly have a name?”

“Not one I know.”

“Oh?” Banksworthy cocked his head to the side. “And why is that, Frankenstein?”

“I’ve been aboard the ship just over two days, sir. In that time there have been two discovered bodies, an evacuation and we’ve been called into combat. I haven’t yet had the time to learn the names of everybody aboard.”

Banksworthy nodded, although he didn’t seem to take on board. His companion scribbled furiously.

“An unknown orderly came and collected you. If you don’t know the man, how do you know he was an orderly?”

Victor looked at him, stricken. “Because of his uniform.”

Banksworthy didn’t blink.

“I knew he was an orderly because he was in an orderly’s uniform.”

Banksworthy nodded, and seemed to consider. “Let me see if I have this straight. You are woken up in the middle of the night and brought to the captain’s cabin. Then a man who you do not know appears and directs you to the scene of a particularly brutal murder of a fellow officer. Despite not knowing the man, you are able to make a split-second judgement as to who he is because of his uniform.”

“It has a bloody great cross on it!” said Frankenstein, then regretted it.

Banksworthy blinked. “My, my. We are sparky this morning.” He glanced and the other man, Gardner, and then back at Frankenstein. “You arrive at the body. Who else is there?”

“The medical officer,” says Frankenstein, forcing himself to be as calm as he can. “The orderlies. Two of them, including the man who brought me there. And the chaplain.”

“And you recognise all of them?”

“By sight.”

“By sight,” Banksworthy repeats. “Alright. So you arrive on deck and it’s dark. It’s past two o’clock in the morning. What do you see there?”

Victor swallowed, and cast his mind back to the night before. The same question asked, the same answer given.

“I saw the body. It was sat on the fo'c'sle, like it had been posed. Except not really. Its arms were splayed out. Like if you were a child and you were sunbathing.

Banksworthy nodded. Gardner looked up at Victor. He carried on.

“The body had no head. The medical officer was standing by me. The orderly who brought me knelt down beside the – corpse. The other orderly was with him. On the other side.”

“And the chaplain? Where was he?”

“He was on the other side of me. The side where the MO wasn’t.”

“I see. And would that be the left side or the right side?”

“The right,” said Victor, hoping to God he had got them the right way around. “He was standing on the right.”

“Was the loss of the head immediately apparent, Sub-Lieutenant Frankenstein?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe how?”

“His head was off.”

Gardner disguised a guffaw. Banksworthy met Victor’s eyes, calm and clever. “Thank you, Mr. Frankenstein. Was the neck obscured in any way? Was anything placed over it? Was the body posed in such a way it was not apparent that the head had been removed?”

Victor dug his nails into his thumb. “No.”

“No,” Banksworthy echoes. “So you are taken up to see the body, with four other people. May I ask why it was you who was taken up, Mr Frankenstein?”

“My father is a doctor. He practises in Bromley. I used to work with him when I was younger.”

Banksworthy raised an eyebrow. “Work with him?”

“Work for him,” Victor corrected. “In the summer. School holidays.”

“So you have a working medical knowledge.”

“Not enough to be a medical professional,” Victor admitted, “but more than the layman.”

“And it was your… informed opinion which led to you being present on deck at the time?”

“It was, yes.”

“May I ask why?”

Victor blinked. “I’ve just told you why.”

“No,” said Banksworthy, very deliberately. “You’ve told me why you might be called upon. What you haven’t told me is why you were there.”

“Because I was asked to be,” Victor repeated, confused.

“I know you were asked to be,” said Banksworthy, his patience sounding like it was wearing thin. “But who was it that asked you?”

“It was Captain Keene.”

Banksworthy nodded. “Captain Keene. Alright. So I assume it is in your records that your father is a doctor?”

“It is, yes.”

“And is it in your records that you used to work for your father?”

“My – what, my naval records?”

Banksworthy adopted that tone of voice again. Like one may speak to a child who was being deliberately obstinate. “Was it or was it not a disclosed fact when you joined the Navy that you used to work in your father’s medical practice?”

“I may have mentioned it,” said Victor, still mentally at sea.

“Did you have it listed officially as past employment?”

“No, I never got paid for it.”

“So it’s unlikely that that information is on your service record. How then, Mr Frankenstein, did Captain Keene know to call on you?”

Victor’s heart plummeted. He tilted his chin. “Captain Keene knows my father, sir.”

Banksworthy leant back, nodded slowly. Just like Victor had known he would. “Ah. Here we are. Your father knows Captain Keene.”

“I don’t understand why that is relevant, Mr. Banksworthy,” said Victor. Banksworthy waved a hand.

“Oh, it isn’t, particularly. Merely interesting, is all. You come here from Dartmouth in less than a week, and within forty-eight hours of your embarking you’re deployed. And your father knows the captain. I’m sure you’ll agree that's noteworthy, Mr Frankenstein.”

“Not particularly,” said Victor. “The service world is rather small.”

“Is it, now?”

“Getting smaller now that there’s a war on.”

Banksworthy ignored him.

“You’re taken up to the deck to view the body because of your – medical background. As what, a learned opinion?”

“A third opinion.”

“So not a learned one?”

Victor gritted his teeth. “As much as was needed. I was happy to confirm what I saw.”

“Which was the corpse of Sub-Lieutenant Clayton?”

“Yes.”

“And you could tell it was Sub-Lieutenant Clayton?”

“Not immediately, but the context of the situation rather gave it away.”

Banksworthy glanced at him, gimlet eyed. “What does that mean?”

“I was taken from my bed and asked if I knew where Sub-Lieutenant Clayton was. It logically followed that the situation involved Sub-Lieutenant Clayton.”

“That’s interesting,” said Banksworthy, leaning back. “Because the statement we took from your Fifth Lieutenant Walton – you confirm it was Fifth Lieutenant Walton who got you out of bed?”

“Yes,” said Victor.

“Well. The statement we have from Fifth Lieutenant Walton says that he asked you if you, and I quote, ‘ _had seen Sub-Lieutenant Clayton_ ’”.

Victor looked at him, floundered. “I fail to see how that is relevant.”

“Oh it is, Mr. Frankenstein. One implies that he has agency of his own; if you have ‘seen’ him anywhere about the ship. One implies that he does not. As if he has been…. left somewhere.”

Victor saw the bait, and deliberately tried not to take it. “Tell me, Banksworthy. If a policeman you knew had been murdered and the body displayed and you were awakened in the middle of the night on two hours’ sleep, would you remember exactly what was said? Against the testimony of someone else in the same position?”

“Mercifully,” said Banksworthy, in exactly the same serene manner, “I have not been in a position where two of my peers are found dead within a week. I have not had the bad fortune.” He looked up at Victor. “God willing.”

“If you have Walton’s testimony memorised so well, you’ll know I had never met Lowe.”

“No, you hadn’t. And yet you were present at the discovery of his body as well, were you not? I wonder if you could explain that for me, Frankenstein?”

“The alarm went off.”

“Beg pardon?”

Victor thought. “The alarm…. went off. There was a siren.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “There was a siren. When Lowe’s body… came aboard.”

“And that siren sounded when?”

“I don’t know. Not long after I’d boarded. I was in the captain’s cabin. Being made familiar with my role.”

“So the alarm went off and…?”

“Someone came and collected the Captain. The Captain’s steward.”

“And the Captain asked you to come with him?”

Victor thought. “He said I may as well,” he said.

“You may as well. And what was there when you went?”

“Lowe.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Could you tell it was Lowe?”

“No?”

“Oh?” asked Banksworthy. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t know what Lowe looked like. I came aboard as his replacement. I assume the medical officer knows.”

Banksworthy said nothing, but he nodded assent. “I understand. He was dead before you got here.”

“Yes.”

“Tragedy seems to follow you, Mr Frankenstein.”

Victor forced a smile “You would think.”

“Could you tell me how Fifth Lieutenant Lowe died?”

“No, I couldn’t?”

“Were you not called to that one?”

“I was not. And I feel it was not necessary, after they found him.”

“Oh?” asked Banksworthy, looking up. “How did they find him?”

Victor let a beat go by. “You’re from the Met,” he said. “Surely you’ll have a record.”

“Quite the expert at being with the police, Mr Frankenstein.”

“It isn’t my first time giving testimony in a murder trial.”

“Oh?”

“No,” said Frankenstein. “Although last time I called the officer ‘Detective’”.

Banksworthy didn’t rise.

Although he did arrest someone.

*

The body was brought ashore for the autopsy almost as they were due to set sail. The timing was so well pronounced. So good, in fact, that the ship was boarded and they arrested Regan. No matter what they’d said. It didn’t matter. They were good enough prepared, it seemed.

Of course they were. They never could not be. The British Empire. There never was a double negative.

Regan had links to people advocating for the Irish Free State, and again to those of the Communist Party. He had no history of violent crime, but if he were ever to commit a violent crime, surely it would be to the British Capitalists?

Anyway.

He was taken away, via boat. They all watched him go.

He overlapped with some other boats, some smaller skiffs. The two pilots didn’t acknowledge each other. Maybe they were too far apart. Maybe the situation didn’t call for it, those four men in a boat. It was supplies coming aboard. That’s what was coming toward them.

Victor didn’t know Regan. Had never met him. He was a stoker, apparently. He’d kept the boiler alive while Victor slept. Not that Victor had slept well. With him had departed officers Banksworthy and Gardner, as well as officers Kilmarson and Atkins. Victor had watched them sail away as well has be had watched them sail in. He almost got into trouble with Master Bowles for it.

He was watching them at noon, because that’s when they left. Master Bowles was teaching him all by how to steer by the sun. The Admiralty had replied by then.

They were to sail on.

Victor’s mother had climbed the whole case of stairs before she died, and everyone on each floor had a reason not to help her. He knew this. So did they. The Rubicon was crossed when they all realised they had somewhere else to be. It reminded him of how the world worked. His father wasn’t a doctor forever.

Anyway. They asked him in for a third opinion, after Peter Clayton was pronounced dead. They all agreed on the same thing. His head had not come from his body via natural causes.

*

The ship creaked. Victor was sat, with Danvers, Simpson and Walton in Keene’s cabin. There were other officers there; Bathurst and Butlin and Eccleston. Hether and Rogers were still on watch. It was three o’clock in the morning. The body had been discovered half an hour ago.

No one had said a word.

They sat and stood. Victor was sitting. Danvers had his knees apart and his head in his hands. Robert Walton stood behind him, gripping the back of his chair so fiercely his knuckles had  gone white. His jaw was clenched.

Keene sat at his desk, the desk taking all his weight.

“Obviously,” he said at last. “There are certain things which need to be done.”

‘Certain’. There were plenty. Identifying the murderer. Finding the murderer. Finding another officer. Arresting the murderer. Setting sail across the Atlantic.

There was, however, the complicating factor of the body.

It had been found by Second Lieutenant Butlin, the officer on deck. It was wet and well placed, lying among the caggage of the fo’c’sle, not hidden yet not prevalent enough to be instantly noticeable. The body was sitting up; the head was nowhere to be found.

This, of course, meant that it was forbidden to touch it. The spectre of Chadd hung over all of them still.

“Mr Frankenstein.”

Victor looked up.

“You saw the body.”

“Yes, captain.”

Keene looked away, nodded. “Can you describe what you saw. Please.”

The medical officer and his disciples were there, on deck. The chaplain was as well, when Victor had been there. He had wondered, at first, why they needed him, although now he thought he understood. Someone to report back. The impartial word of another officer. And a witness. He didn’t know much about filing a death; did it have to include the testimony of someone impartial? Did that still happen at sea?

They were still within the remit of British maritime law. It would be a capital offence.

He wondered if they’d be prevented from sailing.

Keene looked grave. Victor didn’t want to carry on talking if it would make him worse.

“I was got out of bed by Lieutenant Walton,” he began. “He asked me when the last time I saw Mr Clayton was. I said I wasn’t sure, probably mid-afternoon in the gunroom. He wasn’t there when I came back from astro-nav. I assumed he was getting some sleep before his watch.”

“You’re not on trial, Victor,” Keene said. “Tell us what happened when Mr Walton came to your quarters.

Victor nodded, hot. All eyes were on him. “Mr Walton came to fetch me and asked me to come with him. I put my coat on over my pyjamas. Mr Walton sent me up here, and then one of the orderlies came and asked if I could look over the body. My father was a doctor,” he added, somewhat redundantly. “I used to help him around the surgery when I was younger. Back from school. I’m not an expert, but I know my way around.” _Around what_? he asked himself. _A head_?

Keene nodded. Victor noticed that the first lieutenant was writing. No-one else moved. “What did you see on deck.”

“The orderly brought me up to the fo'c'sle. That’s where I saw the- body. The MO was already there. He asked me to tell him what I saw.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I saw a man with no head. Sir.”

It was silent. Eccleston had stopped writing.

“And what did the body look like?” Keene asked, gently.

“It was propped up, sir. Like it was sitting.” Victor dug his fingernails into his thumb. “The arms were laid out to the side. Not like it was posed, just – there. The legs were drawn up. To keep it in place, I assumed. To keep it – sitting.”

“And who else was there?”

“Me,” he counted. “The MO. The chaplain. The orderly who had brought me up and another orderly I don’t know the name of. They were both either side of it.”

“Had anyone touched the body?”

“No, nobody. We weren’t close enough.”

“Did you know it was Mr Clayton?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to tell straight away, sir, but Mr Walton’s question had rather given it away. He was in an officer’s uniform, sir. From what I could see.”

“From what you could see?”

“It was dark, sir. And there was-”

“Alright,” said Keene, holding up a hand. “Thank you, Victor. You’ve done well.”

A hand squeezed his shoulder. It was gone almost as suddenly as it arrived; he couldn’t tell who it was. The second dead officer in a week.

“Obviously,” said Keene, his vocabulary seemingly diminished in the past twelve hours, “there are two possibilities here.”

The two possibilities rang out loud in the cabin. Nobody wanted to voice them.

“The first is that this was a murder.” This was Eccleston. He had looked up form recording Victor’s statement. He pushed the papers to one side, towards the captain, and leaned forward on his elbows. “The second – well. I’m sure we all know what the second is. We won’t know much until we’re in Queenstown, and even then they won’t be able to tell us a great deal before we sail.”

There was a brief furore.

“Surely we’re not still intending to go?” asked Walton, whose voice rang out the loudest. He was still holding the back of the chair, his face blanched and flushed with _noblesse oblige_. “Not after this. We can’t”

If it were anyone else, Victor thought, Eccleston wouldn’t have bothered to answer. But Walton was a war hero. He had almost been at Dogger Bank. Instead, Eccleston sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Despite appearances, it didn’t seem exasperated. Merely tired. “The Admiralty will have the final say, of course. They could say no. But given the circumstances we’re under, I’m not convinced that they will. Ireland is the last British territory before we hit the other side of the Atlantic, if the situation can’t be taken care of there, it can’t be resolved at any time in the voyage.”

“But we’ve already lost three officers!”

“And gained back two,” Eccleston countered. “And we would still have one of them if he weren’t hell bent on being such a prat. We can’t do anything at all until the MO gives us a cause of death.”

“A cause of death! His head’s off!”

Eccleston looked at Walton levelly. Robert’s eyes were flashing. He looked, for all intents and purposes, genuinely grief-stricken. While everyone else still had to internalise the magnitude of their situation, Robert Walton seemed to have moved several steps beyond all of them. The first lieutenant waited until enough beats had gone by that he was sure Walton was not going to foster any more interjections. He was sure everyone in the cabin was thinking the same thing.

“We don’t know how it came off yet.”

There was a question. Had it been cut off? Or had it been chewed.

“It’s unlikely that anything else happened,” said Keene, eager to reign the conversation back in. “We’re all too caught up in what happened to poor Mr Lowe to realise that the circumstances are nothing the same. It is far more likely to be a man aboard, no matter how disturbing the prospect may be.”

“So they’ll be a court martial?” asked Robert, trying to gain the advantage in the chess game.

“They’ll be an arrest first.”

“And how will that happen? To have an arrest there needs to be an investigation. And to have an investigation, we need to be docked.”

“We don’t need to be docked, Mr Walton,” said Eccleston, at last. “We don’t need to be docked if the police feel there is a reasonable suspicion.”

“A reasonable suspicion? You’ve just said yourself we’re not even sure _what_ killed him!”

“Mr Walton,” Eccleston said. “You are not privy to any and all of the goings on on this ship.”

Walton was quiet, although his jaw grew tighter. Victor expected it to burst.

“If they feel it is necessary, they may install a policeman,” said Keene patiently. As officers we have the right to arrest and detain anyone who we feel may be an active threat or a suspect, but the MOD have their own way of doing things. If they can, I expect they’ll make themselves present any way they can.”

“And what if he gets bumped off, too?”

The voice came from Walton, but it was not his. Danvers, Victor’s signalman, was coldly furious. “What then? What if we end up sailing from here all the way to the bloody States with a murderer in our midst? What then?” He added, “sir”.

Eccleston and Butlin looked tired. Victor could tell they felt the need to intervene on behalf of the captain, but both appeared to hope the other would do it. As Butlin opened his mouth, Keene said “It’s an understandable concern, Danvers. However, it is not likely to come true. Whoever – or whatever – committed this act must know we are going to be in convoy. We have five armed Royal Navy ships at our disposal. We are safer there than we are now.”

Danvers’ mouth twisted.

“Apologies,” he said at last. “Sir.”

Keene held up his hand, but didn’t say anything else.

“It’s nearly four o’clock,” said Eccleston, checking his watch. “We – the captain and I – feel it best that we carry on as normally as we can. Walton and Simpson, you’re on morning watch? Take your stations, we’ll be in Queenstown soon.”

They nodded once, Walton still visibly unhappy, and departed.

Keene watched them go, then turned to the rest of them. “We’ve radioed ahead to Queenstown. They are aware of the situation. We will be met by the military police as we dock, and some of you may be asked to give statements. Be prepared to be awake at four bells. We are one of the last ships expected. The _Medusa_ may be held up passing through the Irish Channel, but for now we must assume that we are the last member of the convoy to make it to port. The Admiralty are both aware of the situation we are in and the time frame in which they have to act. I expect them to have made a decision by noon.

 _That soon_? thought Victor.

“Mr Eccleston has said, and I agree, that it is most likely that we’ll be given the orders to carry on. While horrific, this sort of situation is not unheard of. The sea attracts all sorts of men. We must carry on as if we mean to sail tomorrow.”

Keene, suddenly, looked incredibly old.

“I will send someone to collect you if your statement is needed. These will take place in the wardroom. Please be dressed fittingly as an officer in the Royal Navy.”

*

They were waiting for them in the harbour.

Queenstown was a deep water port, its quay measuring in at twenty feet alongside the berths. It fed the town of Cork, it had to be deep. She was the last stop of the _Titanic_ and of so many in the penal colonies. The _Justinian_ wasn’t allowed to dock there.

He understood why. Too much of a risk to have the culprit fleeing, spooked crewmen deserting. The Dockyard Police rowed up.

Victor was barely awake, having been too panicked about oversleeping to sleep at all. He had eventually decided to give up altogether about an hour before they docked and stepped out on deck. The mornings were late in February. The lights around the deck hung low, water sparking off the wood. The wake they left was hot and white. The chimneys made them known only to the sky. He wondered how many other people had seen the world like this. How many other men had sailed this route, this channel into Queenstown harbour.

They were slowing, now. The coast of Ireland had been hanging on the horizon, swapping places periodically with banks of cloud. A gull passed over. He had gone down for breakfast, managed to force feed himself some porridge and had come back up with a cup of black coffee. He never was a fan of the sugar in the tea.

And as he stood and watched the dinghy row towards them, he felt very small indeed.

The officer on deck was Bathurst, or maybe Bathurst was just the officer who happened to be on deck at the time. He and Keene stood at the top of the scramble net. It was an undignified way to enter the ship.

There were four of them. Victor took note of them as they came on board.

Four men, all a similar height and stature. No one remarking feature, save one who’s hat almost came off on a slight gust. He supposed it may have been dislodged by the climb aboard. Maybe his head was just big.

They all converged. Then they left.  Down to the wardroom, Victor supposed, or maybe the captain’s cabin. Wherever the personnel documents were stored. God knows what his said.

There was a brief flash, again and again. Each one as regular as the other. A lighthouse.

*

They came for Victor in the gunroom, like he supposed they would. He’d been waiting in the gunroom so they knew where to find him, alone.

There was a knock.

“Come.”

Styles’ head came apologetically from around the doorframe. He looked awful.

“Men in the wardroom for you, sir.”

Victor nodded and put on his cap. “Thank you, Styles. Lead the way.”

He did. Victor saw that his initial impression of the men hadn’t been far off at all.

The Dockyard Police were a division of the Metropolitan Police. They had all the same rights and responsibilities. There were two men in here, both of them of a very particular look and stature. The other two were nowhere to be found. Victor wasn’t quite sure how to address them.

He held out his hand.

“Sub-Lieutenant Frankenstein.”

The policeman closest to him nodded, after a pause, and took Victor’s hand in his. The pause could well have been deliberate. He would never have known.

“Banksworthy. Dockyards Police.”

“Pleasure.”

“Yes.”

Banksworthy dropped Victor’s hand. Victor sat.

Keene, or Keene’s steward, had arranged the room to make it more fitting for an interview procedure. It was still recognisably a wardroom, although not one he’d ever been in before.

The wardroom on the _Justinian_ stood on ceremony. There was a globe in the corner, where the full windows would have been two hundred years ago. The remains of breakfast had been too hastily cleared, and toast crumbs and tea-rings littered the table. The stewards had had their work cut out.

The table was drawn to one side, and then someone had realised they’d never be able to make the room habitable without it. One chair was set up on one side, three on the other. They were central to the room, on the far left of where the table had been dragged to. It gave the room a half-finished feel. It was like the set of some schoolboy play.

Perhaps they had expected more policemen. Banksworthy and his companion sat on one side. He motioned for Victor to do the same.

Banksworthy opened a file and wrote something at the top. Then he glanced at Victor.

“Full name?”

“Victor Aurelius Frankenstein.”

“Aurelius? Father a Classics fan, was he?”

“Yes. Sir?”

“Don’t worry with the honourifics, Frankenstein, you don’t work for me.” He glanced up. “Been in the service long?”

“Since Thursday.”

A pause. Then, “Since Thursday. Alright. Been aboard the _Justinian_ the whole time?”

“Yes,” he said, retaining the ‘sir’ with relish. “Yes, I have.”

“From where?”

“Southampton. Via Dartmouth.”

“The Naval College?”

“Yes.”

“Pass out, did you?”

“I did. On Monday.”

“On Monday,” Banksworthy repeated, writing. “They must have wanted you.”

He finished what seemed to have been an intentionally verbose way of writing down what Victor had told him. Then he passed the folder and the pen over to his comrade sat to the right of him.

“Alright. Now all of that is out the way, allow me to introduce us. My name is Nathaniel Banksworthy, this is my co-worker Daniel Gardner. We’re just here to take your statement and ask you a few questions about the death of Sub-Lieutenant Peter Clayton. I understand you were at the scene, am I right?”

A beat passed. Then Victor said, “At the scene of what, sir?”

“The murder, Frankenstein.”

“No,” said Victor. “I wasn’t. But I was one of the witnesses who viewed the body.”

Banksworthy didn’t seem to know or care about his wording. He carried on, “You viewed the body. Under what circumstance?”

“I was asked to.”

“By whom?”

“The Medical Officer. He sent an orderly to collect me for a third opinion.”

“A third opinion, hey? Who were number one and two?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I assume the medical officer and the most senior orderly.”

“Not the person who found the body?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“No need to call me ‘sir’, Frankenstein.” Now that he wasn’t writing and had nowhere else to focus, Banksworthy had fixed himself on the bridge of Victor’s nose and seemed unwilling to let go. “You came to view the body. From where?”

“From the captain’s cabin. I was called to the scene.”

“By whom?”

“By the orderly.”

“Does this orderly have a name?”

“Not one I know.”

“Oh?” Banksworthy cocked his head to the side. “And why is that, Frankenstein?”

“I’ve been aboard the ship just over two days, sir. In that time there have been two discovered bodies, an evacuation and we’ve been called into combat. I haven’t yet had the time to learn the names of everybody aboard.”

Banksworthy nodded, although he didn’t seem to hear. His companion scribbled furiously.

“An unknown orderly came and collected you. If you don’t know the man, how do you know he was an orderly?”

Victor looked at him, stricken. “Because of his uniform.”

Banksworthy didn’t blink.

“I knew he was an orderly because he was in an orderly’s uniform.”

Banksworthy nodded, and seemed to consider. “Let me see if I have this straight. You are woken up in the middle of the night and brought to the captain’s cabin. Then a man who you do not know appears and directs you to the scene of a particularly brutal murder of a fellow officer. Despite not knowing the man, you are able to make a split-second judgement as to who he is because of his uniform.”

“It has a bloody great cross on it!” said Frankenstein, then regretted it.

Banksworthy blinked. “My, my. We are sparky this morning.” He glanced and the other man, Gardner, and then back at Frankenstein. “You arrive at the body. Who else is there?”

“The medical officer,” says Frankenstein, forcing himself to be as calm as he can. “The orderlies. Two of them, including the man who brought me there. And the chaplain.”

“And you recognise all of them?”

“By sight.”

“By sight,” Banksworthy repeats. “Alright. So you arrive on deck and it’s dark. It’s past two o’clock in the morning. What do you see there?”

Victor swallowed, and cast his mind back to the night before. The same question asked, the same answer given.

“I saw the body. It was sat on the fo'c'sle, like it had been posed. Except not really. Its arms were splayed out. Like if you were a child and you were sunbathing.

Banksworthy nodded. Gardner looked up at Victor. He carried on.

“The body had no head. The medical officer was standing by me. The orderly who brought me knelt down beside the – corpse. The other orderly was with him. On the other side.”

“And the chaplain? Where was he?”

“He was on the other side of me. The side where the MO wasn’t.”

“I see. And would that be the left side or the right side?”

“The right,” said Victor, hoping to God he had got them the right way around. “He was standing on the right.”

“Was the loss of the head immediately apparent, Sub-Lieutenant Frankenstein?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe how?”

“His head was off.”

Gardner disguised a guffaw. Banksworthy met Victor’s eyes, calm and clever. “Thank you, Mr. Frankenstein. Was the neck obscured in any way? Was anything placed over it? Was the body posed in such a way it was not apparent that the head had been removed?”

Victor dug his nails into his thumb. “No.”

“No,” Banksworthy echoes. “So you are taken up to see the body, with four other people. May I ask why it was you who was taken up, Mr Frankenstein?”

“My father is a doctor. He practises in Bromley. I used to work with him when I was younger.”

Banksworthy raised an eyebrow. “Work with him?”

“Work for him,” Victor corrected. “In the summer. School holidays.”

“So you have a working medical knowledge.”

“Not enough to be a medical professional,” Victor admitted, “but more than the layman.”

“And it was your… informed opinion which led to you being present on deck at the time?”

“It was, yes.”

“May I ask why?”

Victor blinked. “I’ve just told you why.”

“No,” said Banksworthy, very deliberately. “You’ve told me why you might be called upon. What you haven’t told me is why you were there.”

“Because I was asked to be,” Victor repeated, confused.

“I know you were asked to be,” said Banksworthy, his patience sounding like it was wearing thin. “But who was it that asked you?”

“It was Captain Keene.”

Banksworthy nodded. “Captain Keene. Alright. So I assume it is in your records that your father is a doctor?”

“It is, yes.”

“And is it in your records that you used to work for your father?”

“My – what, my naval records?”

Banksworthy adopted that tone of voice again. Like one may speak to a child who was being deliberately obstinate. “Was it or was it not a disclosed fact when you joined the Navy that you used to work in your father’s medical practice?”

“I may have mentioned it,” said Victor, still mentally at sea.

“Did you have it listed officially as past employment?”

“No, I never got paid for it.”

“So it’s unlikely that that information is on your service record. How then, Mr Frankenstein, did Captain Keene know to call on you?”

Victor’s heart plummeted. He tilted his chin. “Captain Keene knows my father, sir.”

Banksworthy leant back, nodded slowly. Just like Victor had known he would. “Ah. Here we are. Your father knows Captain Keene.”

“I don’t understand why that is relevant, Mr. Banksworthy,” said Victor. Banksworthy waved a hand.

“Oh, it isn’t, particularly. Merely interesting, is all. You come here from Dartmouth in less than a week, and within forty-eight hours of your embarking you’re deployed. And your father knows the captain. I’m sure you’ll agree that's novel, Mr Frankenstein.”

“Not particularly,” said Victor. “The service world is rather small.”

“Is it, now?”

“Getting smaller now that there’s a war on.”

Banksworthy ignored him.

“You’re taken up to the deck to view the body because of your – medical background. As what, a learned opinion?”

“A third opinion.”

“So not a learned one?”

Victor gritted his teeth. “As much as was needed. I was happy to confirm what I saw.”

“Which was the corpse of Sub-Lieutenant Clayton?”

“Yes.”

“And you could tell it was Sub-Lieutenant Clayton?”

“Not immediately, but the context of the situation rather gave it away.”

Banksworthy glanced at him, gimlet eyed. “What does that mean?”

“I was taken from my bed and asked if I knew where Sub-Lieutenant Clayton was. It logically followed that the situation involved Sub-Lieutenant Clayton.”

“That’s interesting,” said Banksworthy, leaning back. “Because the statement we took from your Fifth Lieutenant Walton – you confirm it was Fifth Lieutenant Walton who got you out of bed?”

“Yes,” said Victor.

“Well. The statement we have from Fifth Lieutenant Walton says that he asked you if you, and I quote, ‘ _h_ _ad seen Sub-Lieutenant Clayton_ ’”.

Victor looked at him, floundered. “I fail to see how that is relevant.”

“Oh it is, Mr. Frankenstein. One implies that he has agency of his own; if you have ‘seen’ him anywhere about the ship. One implies that he does not. As if he has been…. left somewhere.”

Victor saw the bait, and deliberately tried not to take it. “Tell me, Banksworthy. If a policeman you knew had been murdered and the body displayed and you were awakened in the middle of the night on two hours’ sleep, would you remember exactly what was said? Against the testimony of someone else in the same position?”

“Mercifully,” said Banksworthy, in exactly the same serene manner, “I have not been in a position where two of my peers are found dead within a week. I have not had the bad fortune.” He looked up at Victor. “God willing.”

“If you have Walton’s testimony memorised so well, you’ll know I had never met Lowe.”

“No, you hadn’t. And yet you were present at the discovery of his body as well, were you not? I wonder if you could explain that for me, Frankenstein?”

“The alarm went off.”

“Beg pardon?”

Victor thought. “The alarm…. went off. There was a siren.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “There was a siren. When Lowe’s body… came aboard.”

“And that siren sounded when?”

“I don’t know. Not long after I’d boarded. I was in the captain’s cabin. Being made familiar with my role.”

“So the alarm went off and…?”

“Someone came and collected the captain. The captain’s steward.”

“And the captain asked you to come with him?”

Victor thought. “He said I may as well,” he said.

“You may as well. And what was there when you went?”

“Lowe.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Could you tell it was Lowe?”

“No?”

“Oh?” asked Banksworthy. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t know what Lowe looked like. I came aboard as his replacement. I assume the medical officer knows.”

Banksworthy said nothing, but he nodded assent. “I understand. He was dead before you got here.”

“Yes.”

“Tragedy seems to follow you, Mr Frankenstein.”

Victor forced a smile “You would think.”

“Could you tell me how Fifth Lieutenant Lowe died?”

“No, I couldn’t?”

“Were you not called to that one?”

“I was not. And I feel it was not necessary, after they found him.”

“Oh?” asked Banksworthy, looking up. “How did they find him?”

Victor let a beat go by. “You’re from the Met,” he said. “Surely you’ll have a record.”

“Quite the expert at being with the police, Mr Frankenstein.”

“It isn’t my first time giving testimony in a murder trial.”

“Oh?”

“No,” said Frankenstein. “Although last time I called the officer ‘Detective’”.

Banksworthy didn’t rise.

Although he did arrest someone.

*

The body was brought ashore for the autopsy almost as they were due to set sail. The timing was so well pronounced. So good, in fact, that the ship was boarded and they arrested Regan. No matter what they’d said. It didn’t matter. They were good enough prepared, it seemed.

Of course they were. They never could not be. The British Empire. There never was a double negative.

Regan had links to people advocating for the Irish Free State, and again to those of the Communist Party. He had no history of violent crime, but if he were ever to commit a violent crime, surely it would be to the British Capitalists?

Anyway.

He was taken away, via boat. They all watched him go.

He overlapped with some other boats, some smaller skiffs. The two pilots didn’t acknowledge each other. Maybe they were too far apart. Maybe the situation didn’t call for it, those four men in a boat. It was supplies coming aboard. That’s what was coming toward them.

Victor didn’t know Regan. Had never met him. He was a stoker, apparently. He’d kept the boiler alive while Victor slept. Not that Victor had slept well. With him had departed officers Banksworthy and Gardner, as well as officers Kilmarson and Atkins. Victor had watched them sail away as well has be had watched them sail in. He almost got into trouble with Master Bowles for it.

He was watching them at noon, because that’s when they left. Master Bowles was teaching him all by how to steer by the sun. The Admiralty had replied by then.

They were to sail on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao victor doesn't have a middle name so i named him after aurelio voltaire


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hold on to your hats, boys, it's beginning to get semi romantic

They were not the last into harbour.

The _Medusa_ had got there nearly three hours after they had, caught in a bottleneck around Liverpool as they all tried to time the ships into the Mersey. They’d been caught at just the wrong time, according to the signalman who had caught their signalman’s version of their captain’s excuse which had come on over the radio.

Victor had let out his breath a bit when he was told the _Medusa_ hadn’t docked. When she had, five hours later than planned, it was less of a return to normality and more of one where they realised that they knew less about what was going on than they had before.

“Surely,” Victor had heard Walton say to Bathurst, “surely we must be allowed a five hour remit. At least.”

“They only kept us up by three.”

“A three hour remit, then!”

Victor could almost hear the shrug. “We’re due to sail, we’re due to sail. The investigation won’t interfere with our taking on of provisions. The only delay that would mean anything to us is the _Medusa_.”

The _Medusa_ said she was ready to go. In a message relayed from her captain to her signalman to the _Justinian_ ’s signalman to the officer on watch.

The signal came at noon, just as Victor was due to take the afternoon watch. He didn’t, however. Bathurst and Butlin, filling in for Clayton, had been asked to sit in. Filling in for the both of them.

Keene had come and found Victor after his interview was over.

He’d placed an avuncular hand on his shoulder, and Victor had known he was in trouble.

 

*

He had known Henry would be bad, but he never knew it would be worse.

Sometimes, he tried to stroke his hair and talk to him. That was bad. Sometimes he held his hand, but so was that.

*

Keene had come to him specifically to make sure that he was able to talk to Clerval. He had asked. Victor had said yes, solely because he had wanted to. He had wanted to think that he was able to talk to him. Be with him. He wanted to think that he could replace Pete. With Henry. In Henry’s mind.

He couldn’t. But he tried

*

“Never to make you susceptible, you understand.” he had said, soon after. “Nothing like that. I didn’t want you to see it. If the police were going to be involved, I knew they’d speak to the men that had seen it first. But you forget,” and here it was. The hand. The hand on his shoulder. “But you forget,” said Captain Keene. “I know you, Victor.”

And he did, supposed Victor. After his mother had died, Keene had been one of his primary caregivers. An uncle who was never really an uncle. An uncle in the flat, bare prairie of him wanting a mother. Always; a man, a man, a man. Someone else to be a hero. Now he had to be one to Henry.

Archibald Keene had come at a rare time in life. Not young enough to be dashing and not old enough to retire. Victor’s father had nurtured him through what he long suspected to be his old age. If not that, then some phantom brought on prematurely by alcohol. And if not alcohol then… Victor didn’t need to wonder. At Keene’s age, you could do whatever whenever the mood took you. You would die anyway.

Victor longed to be that age.

And yet.

Keene’s hand stayed on his shoulder in the way that Victor hated. Keene had said, “I understand you know Henry Clerval.”

Victor had said “No.”

Keene had continued. “I understand you’re friendly with him.”

Victor had said, “Not so much as you think.”

There had been a beat.

“You are now,” Keene had said. A statement as much as it was ever a question.

Victor absorbed this. Then – “I am. I suppose.”

Keene had allowed him this time. He allowed him a similar silence before he said “You are. And you’ll do this.”

Victor looked at him.

“For me.”

Victor nodded.

Henry almost gave up on the first day of their voyage.

*

Now the ship sailed, and he stroked Henry’s hair.

There had been more to what Banksworthy and his compadre had asked. How he knew of Henry. What he knew of Henry. How he knew of Henry. Just like in school; the four _W_ s and an _H_.

What, where, why, when. How?

He didn’t know. Fate. Chance. Circumstance. Luck, if it were to be had in a sensible way.

Henry was inconsolable.

Victor learned later from the medical officer that the reason Henry had not appeared on deck that night was he was so heavily sedated. They had had to medicate Henry before they came up to see the body.

Not that Henry had discovered it. That ball was solely in the court of an orderly who failed to see the irony.

“Kill him, that will,” Medical Officer Featherstonehaugh had said.

Featherstonehaugh. Such a stupid way to spell ‘farnshaw’. The MO had evidently known this well enough to go by the alias ‘MO’; ‘MOF’ in in need of differentiation; ‘Mof’ or ‘Moffy’ in the _de_ _jure_ parlance.

Featherstonehaugh. No wonder everyone hated the gentry.

But Henry had been every bit as bad as promised. _It isn’t pretty_ , Mof had promised, as they descended. Victor had never seen the medical docks; he never hoped to, either. They were a deck above what he had come to think of as his own. Close enough to the surface that it could be reached, no matter how bad. Far enough away from the deck that, well.

They were protected from the spray, at least.

Henry was in a separate compartment when Victor came to see him

“I’ve had to cordon him off,” said the orderly who hadn’t lead Victor to the body, whose name was Brody. “Put him aside, so he can get more rest.”

“I’m sure,” said Victor, who was familiar with what the phrase ‘more rest’ meant in a medical context.

*

Henry looked awful.

Not on the door of death. Nor did he look on the door of life. Henry looked halfway between the both; incredible for a man experiencing neither.

Victor took Henry’s hand in his.

It was cold, of course.

He had been on deck for so long. With the body for so long.

Henry had been the second one on the scene of the corpse. This had been omitted from the official record of what had gone on on board the _Justinian_. The body had been reported as discovered by the man-at-arms, coincidentally on deck for a stroll in the starlight. No one had ever asked what starlight he’d been there to stroll under. The second orderly, of course. The one Victor had never met.

And, of course. It all lead to one question.

_One man has a lot of control over this narrative._

He lay with Henry. Henry lay in his lap. Victor stroked his marmalade hair.

“They can’t simply be _on_ here, Henry. They _can’t_ just mean this _,_ ” he’d said. “Of all the places in the world, Henry.”

Victor didn’t notice when they set sail. He knew that they were sailing, but the time and name and date and place of the ship they were with foreslipped him. Not that it would matter. He stood with Henry whatever. This man he barely knew.

And soon another noticed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> robert comes roberting in.
> 
> cw for rather frank discussion of an autopsy in the last part of the chapter.

A man he barely knew either.

Robert Walton had been in the Navy as long as he could remember. He had fought pirates off of High Barbary, fought for the Empire off Tortuga. He had been there when Drake burnt the Spanish Armada; when Nelson broke the fleet at Trafalgar. They had all watched him at Copenhagen. They had seen him at the Dardanelles. He knew the Nile. He had lost an arm with Nelson. And here he was, having lost a single officer and being beyond replete and punishment.

None of which Henry was privy to. Nor was anyone, outside of Henry’s mind.

And it was an ammunition courier they had been given. And after everything, they had not been allowed any time between the arrest of Regan and the arrival of the _Medusa_ in which to mark their place. Make their arrival in Queenstown worthwhile. They never did take on another sub-lieutenant.

Walton was aware of the situation of Henry Clerval. He’d been quietly taken aside by Keene on the morning that the dockyard police had come. Keene had explained that Clerval wasn’t ‘currently up to his officership standard’, and that Walton should be aware that he may be asked to undertake some of the duties which may very well have fallen to Clerval. Walton assented, privately resented. He was here to serve, of course. He simply didn’t like being asked to do another man’s job, particularly when the job was the one which had, until recently, been his own. He was just celebrating his freedom from it.

It had been Walton who suggested that Frankenstein be assigned to look over Clerval. He didn’t know either of the two well, with Frankenstein socially selective and Clerval’s friendliness indiscriminate. However, he had noticed that they seemed to be close. Frankenstein was the one with whom Clerval always was, when he wasn’t with Pete Clayton. The captain agreed with him.

“Frankenstein has spent a lot of his time alone. I’m not sure he knows that he doesn’t like it. He isn’t suited to it. Helping Clerval will help dig him out of that rut. The lad has a good bedside manner.”

They were sitting in Keene’s cabin. They were alone with two policeman, each of them going through the documentation of every man who had come aboard the _Justinian_. It used to be that you could simply arrive a few days before shipping and the Navy would have you. You didn’t even have to sail under your real name. Not any more.

Walton had been one of the first in the wardroom, after the medical officer and his orderlies. The lead questioner was a man that they would have branded a sea lawyer, if he’d served. The type that played too hard and fast with the rules to have any respect as to what they were there for. He had asked Walton all sorts; when he had been asked to go to the sub-lieutenants’ quarters, how many people had been in there. Where had he been previously, in the service? Where had he been when Clayton was murdered?

He had opted to go to bed straight after dinner, as had been his habit while on board. He had woken around three bells – half past one in the morning, he translated for the police – and gone to the heads for a shave. He had returned his housewife to his rack and made his way up to the wardroom for a cup of coffee and some food, if there was any available. He had wanted to get on with looking over the documentation they had been sent for the ammunition carrier they were accompanying. He was the fifth lieutenant, he got to read them last.

He confirmed that, yes, that was when Captain Keene had asked, did he know what had happened to Sub-Lieutenant Clayton? Then he has asked him to go to the sub-lieutenants’ quarters and get Frankenstein. In the cacophony, Walton had somehow understood that Clayton was lost; gone overboard like Lowe. He had awoken Frankenstein, who was curled up against the light and facing the wall. He had waited while Frankenstein ‘dressed’ – put his coat on over his pyjamas and pulled his boots on without bothering to lace them – and took him back to the wardroom corridor. Frankenstein had then been met by an orderly and taken up onto deck. To view the body.

Walton wondered at how they were to set sail without knowing the autopsy results. Without even knowing if the body was killed by a man. He knew that the captain was to act as the King’s Justice at sea; although he couldn’t imagine a murderer being flogged at six bells on the forenoon watch, he imagined it must have happened in the past. They were able to jail people. They had a dead room, even.

The body was biohazardous material. Or it had to be treated as such, until they confirmed it wasn’t.  He wasn’t sure if there were the facilities to deal with such a thing in Ireland. In Dublin, maybe. Trinity College might be interested. Perhaps they’d have to ship it over to the mainland.

After the police had finished with them, while they were waiting to hear from the Admiralty, Keene had called the lieutenants to his office to hear the preliminary report from the medical officer.

“It’s – inconclusive,” Mof had said, sitting at Keene’s table with the report out before him. “There’s no doubt that a knife or some sort of knife-like implement was used. I can’t tell without a microscope if it was serrated or not, there’s not enough skin. The full autopsy will tell us more.”

“What makes this different,” he said, “from a typical beheading is the spine. Usually one would expect it to have been severed with the same implement that had cut the flesh. This looks like it has been crushed. The vessels around it – from as close as I could get – and the muscle tissue shows signs that it has started to burst, as if it’s been placed under an enormous amount of pressure.”

Nobody wanted to be the first one to react to the news.

“Could a man have done this?” asked Keene at last. He was looking at the corner of the report, and had been for some time.

Mof held out both his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I doubt it would be impossible. What I’d wonder is how he managed to sustain those injuries in the first place. The damage isn’t what I’d expect from someone standing on his neck. It impacts the wrong way. These injuries didn’t come from a strangulation.”

“How much experience do you have with – you know.”

Every medical man who had graduated after the mandatory modules in dealing with that that was other than animal (OTA, which is as close as the MoD or the governments had ever come to a generally accepted name)  had come in in 1903 had to take part in a week-long course of the same before they were allowed to keep practising. They had a year from when they were told to make the arrangements themselves and then claim back any course fees from the State. Most of that money was never seen again. Robert hadn’t had to take one, but he had tried anyway. While the more specialist medical one was full of actual doctors, he managed to stand in on a few more generalised learning lectures. He found it interesting.

He had no idea whether their medical officer had trained before or after 1903; he had that generic look of a man who could be anywhere from thirty-five to sixty. He didn’t change his demeanour much after being asked this question.

“I know the basic form. Enough,” he said. “What I _do_ know is that this doesn’t follow a set method. If it was a duplicator – _the_ duplicator, we’d be seeing… Well. Duplication. Hyperdontia, hyperocculation.  There was nothing I could see in his blood vessel lining to suggest that it had been debilitated. His body fluid levels appeared normal; he wasn’t obviously dehydrated or droughted. No sign of deboning or striation, none of the organic trauma we associate with an OTA. Again, that doesn’t mean it is impossible. It simply means unlikely.”

“How unlikely is ‘unlikely’?”

Mof’s face twisted. “As I don’t have the body, it would be wrong of me to say. The only thing which puts any doubt in my mind about whether or not this was a man-on-man killing is the injury which I saw inside the neck. However, I couldn’t get close enough to carry out any proper investigation.”

“And it was – the word that you used – a ‘crushing’ injury?”

A muscle in Robert’s jaw ticked.

Mof nodded. “It was. That’s as much as I could label it. Not like anything I’ve seen much of, mind. Not from a hanging or a strangling. Even breaking a man’s neck with your own hands wouldn’t do that. It was like someone had dropped the ship on his head.”

“Could the head have been damaged in any way, Featherstonehaugh?” asked Eccleston. Mof shrugged.

“It could explain why we didn’t find it. However, the organic matter which would be present in an injury like that was not present on the deck. There was blood but no brain or bone matter that I could see. I would say it’s unlikely.”

Eccleston looked grim.

Robert felt the same. He wondered if he should pipe up. Although he had a feeling that Mof might already know what he was talking about.

“So,” said Keene. “Inconclusive. We’ll know more when the Admiralty get those results back to us.  All we can do now is wait.” the addition of _pray_ was left unvocalised.

They hadn’t left a dockyard policeman on the ship, which surprised Robert. He had fully intended them to do so. However, he supposed there was the logistics of the operation. Where would they go. The only free bed was one best not thought on. Keene addressed this by asking everyone to be ‘more vigilant than necessary’  when going about their daily routine. _Than necessary_.

Walton almost followed Mof out of the captain’s chamber until he realised that he was going back to the medical room. Robert didn’t want to have to see Henry or Victor like that. He felt it best that they had this time alone.

He wanted to confirm that the same thought had crossed Mof’s mind as his. The crushing, the cutting. It didn’t sound like a beheading. It sounded like a bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also! i posted this robert walton-specific playlist to my tumblr months ago but i think it's as relevant here:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/73He3HnCDwC7g3m6vqCez1?si=ifquyCLES4OWvEFYcFo61Q


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unlucky for some!!

Victor wondered how many others knew their history by now.

Three officers in a week. One dead, one deceased, one spirited away. What had happened to Lieutenant Chadd? Was he still in hospital? Prison? Back on a ship? Would it matter? Clayton without his head and two-tongued Harry Lowe. The _Curse of the Justinian_ , they could call it. _The Justinian Curse_. Had they started to already? It sounded like an anthology story.

It was evening now, and he had not moved from the medical bay all day. Mof had been in and out and once called up to give Clayton’s medical results to the captain. One of the orderlies was charged with unloading and inventorying any supplies which were brought aboard from Queenstown. He did so slowly, methodically. There was not a lot to unpack because there had been almost nothing used. Victor supposed that the ideal place to stock up for a trans-Atlantic voyage was Queenstown. They would have seen enough of them. Dealt with enough of the consequences at the other end.

One hundred and forty hours was their estimated crossing time. The _Justinian_ could probably do it in less, being smaller and lighter than her sister escort. However, they had to stick to the speed of the munitions carrier. Mof had told him what it was they were taking. A hundred and forty hours was just about five days. Five days there and – one could assume – five days back. Perhaps they would wait at Halifax to take on more supplies. Perhaps the munitions carrier wasn’t yet loaded and was taking on her cargo there. Perhaps they’d have to escort her back as well.

Victor wondered how much she’d take with her if she went up.

He hadn’t seen Clayton’s corpse in Mof’s room. It had probably been dealt with long before he got there. Henry must have, though. Been in the room with it. Even if he was too heavily sedated to notice, had he much knowledge? Had he much knowledge of anything at all, Victor wondered.

They had five days of sailing. He didn’t know how long the autopsy results would take.

Victor looked down at Henry. He was asleep, as he had spent most of his time since last night. He slept and slept and he didn’t look any less tired.

Victor had once taken a leave of absence and passed Henry over to the care of Mof while he ran down to the sub-lieutenants’ quarters and fetched Henry’s housewife. After a few false starts, he found it in Henry’s coat pocket. In it he had a comb, a straight razor, a small cake of soap and a strop. He probably wouldn’t thank Victor for bringing him any of those things, but he hoped that Henry may wake up and realise he cared. It wouldn’t make a man more cheery to learn he had to wash with carbolic. Victor wished he had some chocolate to give him.

Mof had come and sat with him at around the end of the afternoon watch. He had brought Victor a cup of tea and a sad looking sandwich. He had missed lunch. He brought one for Henry as well.

“I could get used to the table service, sir” Victor joked, without his heart being in it. Mof didn’t seem offended. He couldn’t be the type to get offended easily, allowing others to call him ‘Mof’.

Instead he took a seat opposite Victor, who was propped on the spare bed in the medical bay. He supposed that he shouldn’t be sat there, and now it would have to be remade again. Mof didn’t seem about to tell him of for it, though.

“You shouldn’t do,” Mof said. “Get used to it, I mean. I suspect you’ll be back on watch come this time tomorrow.”

“The captain has been very kind.”

“The captain likes you,” said Mof, not mincing his words. He leant back. “I understand you know him well?”

“Not well,” Victor hedged. “He’s a friend of my father’s. He was around a lot when my mother died. I suppose he’s still acting out of misplaced paternal concern.”

“Rather he didn’t?”

“I would rather he didn’t,” said Victor, straightening a leg. “I’m very aware of how it looks. I also don’t trust him not to report on everything I do to my father.”

“Is he the overbearing sort?”

“No. I’ve simply had enough.”

“Yes, it does rather remind one of his schooldays. It can be hard,” agreed Mof, “going from one institution to another to another. Your father is a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“No desire to follow him into the trade?”

“No desire to spend all that time to qualify. It seems such a terribly long time to be looking at corpses.”

“It has its moments,” said Mof, copying Victor’s gesture of straightening a leg out. He massaged his knee. “I was rather fortunate in my schooling. Clerval is a Fettes man, you know. We’ve had a few conversations about dear old Edinburgh.”

“Are you Fettes, too?”

“Good God, no,” said Mof. “Abingdon. Studied up in Edinburgh. Did all my training there. Wonderful castle.”

“We have a castle here, too.”

“That we do,” said Mof, his mouth twisting sardonically. “The difference between Edinburgh and a battle cruiser is that when a gun goes off in Edinburgh, it’s one o’clock.”

“We’ve yet to have a one o’clock here at all, in that case.”

“And I do hope it stays that way,” Mof agreed. “Can’t say I care too much for battle myself.”

“Have you been in one?” asked Victor, allowing his curiosity to get the better of him. Mof huffed.

“I think I’m here for much the same reason you are. Signed up. Thought ‘why not’. Wife wasn’t happy, but I get a military pension out of the deal if I manage to put off buying it for the rest of the foreseeable. You married, Frankenstein?”

“God, no.” said Victor. “Never considered it.”

“No-one ever caught your eye?”

“There wasn’t much scope for that at Sevenoaks.”

“University?”

“Never went,” Victor said. “Or rather, I suppose it’s more proper of me to say I ‘never got the chance’. I’ve spent the past few years helping out my father’s surgery. Joined the service the end of last year.”

“I heard you were new.”

“That policeman certainly seemed to think so.”

“Yes, well.” said Mof. “He seemed to think a lot of things.”

Victor wanted so desperately to pick that up. He forced himself to move on instead.

“Did he have a chance to talk to Henry, at all?”

“I wouldn’t have allowed it if he did,” said Mof. “I’ve taken the Oath against knowingly doing harm, and I think that allowing that man in here would have violated it completely.”

Victor laughed. Mof didn’t. He thought for a bit, and then he said “Look, Frankenstein. I don’t know what happened up there any more than you do. Neither does he. But there are some things that people shouldn’t have to know. And if you ask me, that’s one of them. What happened to Pete Clayton was a bloody tragedy, but it can’t be helped now. The only thing we can do is manage the consequences, and for you and I that means Henry.”

There was a silence. They were both looking at Henry. He was lying still, his hand by his face. He had still been wearing his greatcoat when he was brought in. It had been draped over his bedclothes. The wall lamp hissed.

“Do you know much about him?” Victor asked at last.

“I don’t know anything about him,” said Mof. “Marginally more than you, maybe, and that's because I’ve been here longer. But I know his type.” He turned back to Victor. “I’m a medical man, Frankenstein. My job is to look after everyone here, in sickness and in health. You can’t necessarily see when someone is experiencing either. Men like Clerval here like to put on a good show. I wouldn’t be surprised if he develops some sort of coping mechanism behind the scenes. Alcohol, gambling, that sort of thing. If he hasn’t already. But we’re already down a man and you both need to be up and out by tomorrow at the earliest. Midnight, if I can swing it. So I want you to leave this bay, and whatever comes after either of you in the aftermath of this, I want you to tell me before you tell anyone else. Come!”

This last word was directed at whomever was outside the door, which had just knocked politely. Victor expected it to be one of the orderlies, but it was Walton who looked around.

“Oh!” he said, seeing Victor. “My apologies. I’ll come back another time.”

“It’s quite alright, Walton,” said Mof, getting up. “Mr Frankenstein and I were just finishing up here. Do you mind if I close this curtain, Victor?”

Victor shook his head, a mouth full of lukewarm tea. Mof drew the curtain across, a thick blackout material which separated off the beds from the main area of the medical bay. It seemed an absurdly practical invention for the Navy. It reminded Victor of the nurse’s office at school.

He wondered if he should wake Henry and try to feed him. If Mof was serious about getting them both – both! – back to work for tomorrow, it would do as well to make Henry’s internal clock as close to normal as possible. However, the fact that he was still sleeping must indicate he needed it. Worse than that, Victor wasn’t sure how much was natural and how much was the aftereffects of whatever sedative he’d been given by Mof _et al_. In his experience, patients coming round from sedation were often hungry. Although those same patients had often been the subject of operations or various intrusive procedures. The healing always made them hungry. How much did Henry have to heal from? Victor wondered if he had had enough water.

He could hear Mof and Walton’s voice from the other side of the curtain. They seemed to be taking great pains to be quiet. Victor didn’t want to listen in, but he had not been asked to leave, either. Nor could he be now, as his only route out was through into the main bay. He could hear Mof’s  say “it did cross my mind -”, followed by something inaudible from Walton. He was rather better at disguising his voice. Not that there was anything else they could be talking about.

He heard chairs scrape. Mof say “I’ll bear it in mind,” with the unmistakable cadence of someone who did not intend to do so. Victor looked up as he came back in.

“Sandwich alright?” was the first thing he asked. Victor couldn’t answer before he said “I’d wake up him and see if he’ll have anything. If he doesn’t want that, he can have porridge. He’s eating something.”

Victor nodded.

“And get him drinking. There’s a few things I need to ask him before I let him leave. I doubt you’ll need to be there, Frankenstein. Make sure his housewife and all that are taken care of, will you?”

“Yes,” said Victor. Mof nodded and left. He didn’t open the curtain.

Victor began the labourious procedure of bringing Henry back around.

*

“It was real, wasn’t it?” Henry asked, sat propped against the bulkhead and sipping tea like a child.

“Yes,” Victor said.

Henry nodded and put down his cup. He was quiet for a very long time.

Victor thought he might have gone back to sleep - or else entered some sort of fugue state - before he spoke again. His voice sounded more hoarse with every word.

“Do they know how?”

Victor wondered if he should answer, but Henry caught up on it.

“Tell me, Victor.”

Victor looked over at Henry. He was gazing down to the end of the bed, his eyes unfocused. His skin was reflecting several shades paler than he was in the artificial light. He looked like a ruined Caravaggio.

“I don’t know,” Victor said at last. “Nobody does.”

Henry’s head turned.

“Nobody knows what happened.”

Henry asked again. “How?”

“It was a strange set of injuries, Henry. No one is quite sure what did it.”

“His head-”

“Yes. No one had been able to work out how yet. It’s not – clear.”

He didn’t want to expand on that any more. Mercifully, Henry didn’t ask. He just stared at the same place on the wall he’d been staring all this time.

Victor thought back to what Mof had said. “Henry, we’re on the move. We’re on duty now.”

Henry said “I know.”

“They want me back working by midnight tonight. At the latest.”

“That’s alright,” said Henry. “You should. Don’t let me keep you here.”

“I’m worried about you, Henry.”

Henry turned and looked at him. “Try not to be.”

“That’s disingenuous and you know it.”

Henry knew but didn’t care. “You worry about a lot, Victor.”

Despite himself, Victor felt his jaw tighten. “Don’t start being flippant.”

“I’m not. You know I’m not. I’ll take care of myself.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll still be here. Mof isn’t going anywhere.”

Henry’s expression didn’t change. He said “I know.”

“We’ve got five days of sailing ahead of us. That's less than a week.” He was about to add how much could change in a week, how much had changed. He decided rightly not to. “It’ll go quickly, Henry.”

Henry didn’t say or do anything. Henry didn’t move.

Victor left.


End file.
